Sancta Trinitas – Part 1: Confutatis Maledictis
by Regina Imperatrix
Summary: With growing tensions between humans & Methuselah, the appearance of a new enemy threatens the order & stability of both worlds. In this game of cat & mouse, of deception & lies, the question of who to trust will determine the victors and the losers.
1. Part I

Title: Sancta Trinitas – Part 1: Confutatis Maledictis  
**Category:** Trinity Blood  
**Rating:** 16+  
**Disclaimer:** Trinity Blood and all immediate characters, themes and ideas are registered trademarks and belong to the late Sunao Yoshida, and THORES Shibamoto. Any original characters are however mine. No profit is being accumulated from this writing piece.  
**Spoilers:** Yes

**General Notes:** An AU take on the story of Trinity Blood. Considering continuity between the novels, manga and anime is entirely disproportionate, I won't be following any particular order in how the events come to pass. The story will also follow a slightly different scenario to those presented in canon, in a bid to address certain aspects of the Trinity Blood world as it is portrayed, and in order to make this tale different, and consequently, interesting. That is the aim, in any case.  
This first chapter is rather lengthy, but I really wanted to get things moving early on. I do hope people aren't deterred by it. Also, this has no Beta, so if you see any obvious mistakes, please let me know. And of course, if you have anything to say, please consider leaving a review. It will help me determine the course of the story by seeing what you readers like/hate, as well as encouraging me to update. While this may not be my first fan fic, it is the first in this fandom so I would highly appreciate any feedback. Cheers.

**Warnings: **High-level violence, coarse language, angst, adult themes, sexual references, torture, drug use, heresy  
**Genre:** Action/Drama/Supernatural  
**Summary:** Whilst tensions between humans and Methuselah continue to mount, a collection of individuals from both sides remain determined to uphold peace at all costs. However, the conflicting interests of independent forces, as well as the appearance of a new enemy, will threaten the very order and foundations of both worlds. As a game of survival ensues, the question of who to trust, of who is friend and of who is foe, will determine the victors, and the losers.

* * *

Part I 

"_And the devil, taking him up into an high mountain, shewed unto him all the kingdoms of the world in a moment of time.  
And the devil said unto him, __All this power will I give thee, and the glory of them: for that is delivered unto me; and to whomsoever I will I give it.  
All shall be thine, if thou wilt fall down and worship me."  
-__ Luke__ 4:5 - 4:7 _

A hollow wind, lacking all purpose and direction, whipped by unhurriedly. It passed over its lifeless obstacles; accepting no hindrance. With it, it carried a very particular scent; one bound to reveal a rather precarious secret to those who happened to be near. There was no mistaking the stale odor of demise and decay. Even to those auspicious few, living lives of mirth and amity – blissfully ignorant as they were – there was no mistaking the message told from such a stench.

The passing breeze whistled and cried; the sound akin to a haunting lullaby, song of some invisible phantom. There was no avoiding the poignant tune as it invaded upon any and all it could reach. Nor the cold the wind seemed to bring, intrusive and unyielding, as it seeped through even the thickest of robes, only to leave a shiver in its wake.

The night sky – it should be night – was anything but. Hues of molten red and flaming orange were visible as far as the eye could see. It was as if the brilliant orb that lit the daylight sky had exploded, leaving a memento of its former self in the heavens above. With such an odd atmosphere, one would have assumed that the land beneath would be glowing. Rather, the light was dim. A reminder, of course, that it ought to be a darkened night.

The only source of light was from the full moon above. However, one look at it was enough to unnerve even the bravest of men. It was unusually large, one could say colossal even. But that was its least defining feature. The moon that night was red. Blood red; stained by that very essence, spilt in abundance on Earth's soil below.

Upon entering the clearing amidst the ruins of some old, forgotten and nameless city, the Captain of the present Inquisition Guard couldn't help but hitch his breath. Two dozen of his men from the legion he'd been commanding were lying on the ground, scattered about like pieces of confetti. One poor soul had been nailed onto a protruding plank of pointed wood, his blood still dripping onto the growing puddle below. The rest of the men had been cut in two, their torso and legs meters apart. Others were missing limbs, of which were scattered carelessly about the area, several among them decapitated as well. Those bodiless heads still had their eyes wide open. The look of shock, and above all fear, was unmistakable. Even in death they revealed the traumas of what they'd been through.

The sight was uncanny… terrifying; a glimpse of the horrors of hell no doubt. One of the men behind him gasped, the sound cutting into the drawn-out silence. Including him, there were seventeen guards in all. The Captain raised his head, scanning the area in a meticulous fashion. The red moon threw an eerie illumination over the land, akin to the glow of some ravaging fire. The leaves of the few far-off trees appeared to be just that; burning embers emanating the last of their fiery radiance.

The Captain took a step forward, eager to avoid the splatters of blood in his path, however failing miserably. There was simply far too much. So much in fact, that it seemed unlikely that his men could have been the only source of it all. It was a disturbing thought.

As the rest of the legion checked their comrades – holding tightly onto the notion that even one of the lesser wounded could still be alive – his eye caught sight of an ominous silhouette, standing tall upon one of the higher pillars, with the bloody moon directly behind them.

It appeared to be a man, tall and lithe under black coats, which were moving with the current of air. With his back towards them, his long, light-brown hair moved in sync with his attire. Its movement, a dance of sorts as it fluttered in the wind, was almost hypnotic. He didn't appear to be doing anything besides looking up at the full moon, body deathly still as the cold breeze passed over and around him.

Nonetheless, all of a sudden, the stranger turned his head. His eyes were closed, his nose a mere inch away from a full bloom, deep red rose he was holding. He maintained the pose for several moments, and then he opened his eyes. Deep black, lifeless orbs instantly met his despite the significant distance between them. Eyes as dark as a night in hell; blazing with malice and cruel amusement. His skin was deathly pale, his lips touched by a tint of red. Again, he was reminded of blood, and he began to feel ill; a shamefully unheard of reaction by a member of the Inquisition, he thought, and yet his nausea remained.

He tightly clenched the metallic lance in his right hand as a sudden wave of dread consumed him. If this place was hell, then the being before them was none other than the devil himself. With his cunning wiles and deceptively angelic façade – indeed, he was beautiful – one would have expected the demon before them to beckon, smiling all the while,

'Will you walk into my parlor?'_ (1)_

As if having read his mind, intrigued by the thought, the stranger suddenly smiled; the gesture entirely perverse in meaning and show. His attention returned to the long-stem rose in his hand, as he looked down at it thoughtfully before placing it against his nose, devouring its essence in carnal bliss. When done, his eyes, playfully sinister as they were, met his again. Considering his demeanor, it was evident that the man before him was responsible for the slaughter of his men.

The Captain was suddenly enraged, wanting nothing more than to strike down the perpetrator. Though at the same time he was afraid; another foolish sentiment he should know nothing of. Unfortunately for him, the stranger's uncanny presence was intimidating. But he reminded himself, recited in his mind what he and his brothers had been taught like a mantra, that he was a member of the Inquisition; declared by the Spirit of God to be at once the offspring and the image of the popedom _(2)_. There was no room for cowardice or folly, they had been chosen, from all of God's children, to enforce his word. His law. His will. With their Lord watching over them, his will would be done, and they would not fall.

With new-found courage, the Captain prepared his lance as he moved into a battle-ready position. His men did not miss the sudden movement, instantly snapping into attention themselves.

"Sir?" his lieutenant inquired, coming to his side.

He motioned towards their assailant, occupied with examining his rose. His men readied themselves, lances in hand. Their comrades had been ambushed; it was the only explanation for the ease of their defeat. He highly doubted one man alone had taken on a squadron of fully trained Inquisition guards. He prayed, knowing they would be blessed with greater fortune. And then, they would take revenge upon the infidel before them on behalf of their fallen brethren.

"Steady men. We take him together," the Captain commanded, bringing his helmet's visor down.

"The bastard murdered them all. I'm taking him now!" one of the younger, and consequently brasher soldiers declared before making a run for the pillar.

"Stand down man! That is an order!" he commanded, as a sense of dread began to brew at the pit of his stomach. His orders were met on deaf ears.

He instantly looked up at their assailant, who with a ravenous grin, jumped from atop his post. His plunge was almost graceful, his coats billowing around him in haunting circles as he landed without so much as a whisper of sound. At some point he'd produced a long sword of sorts, possibly of Orient descent, and was currently holding it at the ready. He looked calm, impossibly calm, and if he wasn't mistaken his eyes were also closed.

"I said stand down!" he bellowed, his instincts realizing the threat.

Just before his man finished his charge, the stranger opened his eyes, his grin widening in a predatory manner. As the metallic lance came down on him, he swiftly brought the sword across, cutting his man's weapon in half. The front half fell to the ground, bouncing from the impact as the sound cut into the sudden silence engulfing the area. With no further delay, their assailant stepped forward, unhurried in his movements, as he plunged his sword into the surprised soldier. The Captain and his men watched on as the sharpened end appeared from out of his back, blood already staining his outer red robe.

The stranger retracted his sword, only to bring it up in an arc, and then right back down. No one moved, stunned and alarmed at the speed and efficiency of their assailant. Their comrade fell hard, back first onto the ground. The wound that had cut through his chest, from his right shoulder all the way down to his abdomen, was in plain sight. It had severed the metal armor under the red robe, and ran deep into his flesh. A pool of red was rapidly merging with the abundance already consuming the ground.

Another of his men made a dash forward, screaming like a man possessed. Despite his protests, another two followed after him. The man in front made a lunge for the stranger, only to miss as he swiftly moved to the side. Bending low, he swept his sword across the ground, severing one of the soldier's legs from the knee. As the man fell, screaming in apparent agony, the demon before them plunged his sword right into his torso. He pulled it out slightly, only to plunge it further in again.

The expression on his face could only be described as manic, with a sadistic grin and gleam in his eyes. He laughed as he looked upon the two closing in on him, retracting his sword from the now dead corpse. With blinding speed, he sliced the one to his left across the waist, before sidestepping and doing the same to the man on the right, laughing all the while. The bodies fell in unison, one even splitting in two before touching the ground.

He watched on in grim horror as the rest of his unit charged forward, forgetting any and all tactical training they had learnt. They were angry, he could relate to that, but charging blindly forward as they were would not work in their favor. And he was right. They fell one by one, their screams, and the demon's insane sadistic laughing cutting into his thoughts. He watched the long haired devil with a mix of fear and awe, his movements; whilst a little more brash than before, mirrored some deathly dance of sorts. And with every turn, and every slash, their demise quickly approached.

How could they fall so disastrously? Had they not their Lord on their side? How could he allow for this? Was this punishment for some unbeknownst sin, or simply a means to achieve a greater end?

The questions continued to plague his mind, but he brushed them aside, returning focus to the there and then. There was only one man left just a few meters from him. He was backing away, the lance trembling in his hand as the stranger slowly made his way towards them. His fear was contagious, leaving the Captain frozen in place.

"S-s-stop!" the man cried in desperation.

Their assailant ignored the plea, flicking his sword as he continued to stalk towards the frightened man. Before he could utter another word, the demon moved with such speed, almost vanishing from sight only to reappear directly before the Inquisition guard. With his sword he made a perfect arc, cutting right into his last remaining soldier. He could distinctly hear a gurgling sound as the man's head snapped back with his fall. A deep red cut ran from his chest, through his neck to his hairline, splitting his head in perfect symmetry. His eyes were wide open, pained amidst the gleam of fear. The Captain looked away, unable to handle the sight of them, and of the blood that was slowly trickling like ravaging snakes down each side of his face.

The sound of footsteps came to a halt, and he eventually looked up, knowing death had finally come to claim him. He removed his helmet, wanting to look the demon squarely in the eye. Yes, he was a demon, for no mere man could have done what he'd just carried out. They had been overwhelmed by true evil, and even though he knew he was going to die, he would meet his demise as valiantly as he could. He would not hide behind a wall of metal; he would fight his enemy face to face.

The demon's eyes were closed as he deeply breathed in the scent of his rose. When he opened them, he met and held his own, and smiled. The same hauntingly perverse smile from before. The Captain gulped down his panic, allowing it to be replaced by anger. Anger over the slaughter of his men. He believed the Lord could still grant him the strength he needed to destroy the beast of a man before him, even if he died in the process. All was not lost yet.

"May God's will be done," he whispered as he readied his lance.

The demon chuckled, a strange sound tinged with amusement and perhaps even insanity. His body took it upon itself to move then; a battle cry escaping passed his lips as he brought the lance down on his opponent. The man seemed to disappear, re-appearing a few steps away. He lunged forward, bringing the lance around in an arc but once again the demon's moves were too quick for him. Before he could move aside, his opponent managed to cut him across the tendons in his right elbow, rendering the arm helpless.

He held back a yelp, gritting his teeth as his lance fell from his crippled hand. He quickly picked it up with his left; bringing it across his attacker, only to miss again. Cold steel made contact with skin, slicing cleanly through the side of the Captain's neck and chest. He coughed, the taste of blood now in his mouth as he experienced trouble breathing with a damaged throat. Regardless, it wasn't enough to hinder him. Fighting back the pain he screamed, all his anger and frustration behind it. His mindset was simple; he could not fail!

The Captain moved, avoiding another hit, swinging the lance into his attacker. Again he missed as his opponent flipped around and up into the air. And in that split second, as he came falling down, the sword hit its mark.

He couldn't register the pain as he collapsed, staring up into that molten sky, and foreboding bloody moon. All he could register was that he had failed, and with that the metallic taste in his mouth seemed ready to turn into bile. The demon's face suddenly appeared in his line of vision as he looked down at him, smiling as always that deathly smile. Weren't it for that expression, and of what he knew him to be, he would have sworn an angel had come to greet him before his journey into death.

As his vision blurred he saw the rose fall, its soft, silk-like petals caressing his cheek as it landed against his chest. The hazed silhouette seemed to withdraw, his enemy leaving his line of sight which was worsening ever so slowly, coupled by numbing pain, as his life began to slip away. And soon enough, the world went black.

* * *

"Inconceivable!" 

The Vatican, God's ruling authority on Earth. As a city, it stood tall and proud, Centuries of history forged into every brick and stone. Visitors and the faithful alike would flock like sheep before its majesty, only to look upon its center with all-inspired awe. It had fallen during the Armageddon of old, only to be rebuilt; stronger and grander than ever before.

As an administration, it had assumed a position of safeguarding the human interest, particularly against the vampiric parasitical slime known as Methuselah. To validate its position as protector and defender of mankind, the Vatican had raised itself above numerous obstacles to its current status as a military power, which ultimately made it a significant force to be reckoned with.

Politics aside, the Vatican, for all its power and supremacy, was still a congregation for the Lord's adherents. Peaceful hymns and prayers would regularly be heard over the deep melody of church bells. Hymns and prayers, that would often speak of love, unity, clemency and salvation; model ideals for the worshipers of God. Ecclesiastical branches of the Roman Curia itself would often be seen preaching such values at the helm of Mass, Lauds and Vespers.

With such ideals carved into the minds of every one of God's servants, being advocated at every possible occasion, one would have expected the halls of the Apostolic Palace to be engulfed by a sense of calm tranquility. At times, they usually were. On that day, however, it was the booming, enraged voice of the Duke of Florence that echoed across rooms, slicing into the previously established silence.

"This is preposterous! The entire Inquisition legion?" the baritone voice of Cardinal Francesco di Medici demanded an answer from a nearby aide relaying the latest report.

His Holiness, along with an assembly of administrative Cardinal heads, had been called into an emergency meeting early that morning. Having gathered into one of the larger meeting halls; a classically furnished room amidst a beige-veined marble interior, everybody was currently seated in their allocated places, ardently listening to the grievous report.

"Indeed, it is with great solemnity in which I relay this to you, Your Eminence. However, all preliminary intelligence indicates that the entire squadron of fifty-three men, along with six-hundred of the town's population, was routinely executed late last night. All communication with the legion's captain, Brother Michael, ceased at 21:40. Re-enforcements have only just arrived, but they deem the endeavor too little too late."

Looking upon the Cardinal Medici; a tall and intimidating figure widely known for his propensity for battle and boldness, several would have been alluded to the notion that he cared more for the slaughter of his small legion of men, as opposed to the town's former occupants. The heavy crease in his brow, as well as the quivering vein protruding from his temple illustrated the depths of his current aggravation. For as it was, the Cardinal held the position of Secretary of Vatican Papal Doctrine, and consequently, happened to be director and overseer of the Inquisitorial Department.

It would have been ludicrous to assume Cardinal Medici was feeling a dent in his pride; a grievous sin in the eyes of the Lord, from which all others sprung forth. And yet to look upon his frustrated and incredulous exterior, gave way to thoughts that perhaps the man was personally disturbed, seeing as it had been a department under his command that had failed, as opposed to any other branch. His complete disregard for his sister's band of agents, despite being soldiers of the Lord in their own right, was a testament to his disparities.

"All those people…" the young pope, Alessandro XVIII, whispered, perhaps more to himself than anyone else, before trailing off.

He was seated at the head of the room, upon a high throne of gold, ivory and velvet. Together with his papal robes, woven from the finest of white silks and golden threads, he was the epitome of God's presence on Earth. And yet, looks were often deceiving, as the young pope, upon closer inspection, seemed slightly overwhelmed and unsure as to how to proceed.

His brother, Cardinal Medici, was seated to his left. To his right sat a beautiful young woman; her head adorned by a crown of long, soft, golden curls. She appeared to be the calmest of the three, her eyes closed in contemplative thought.

The Duchess of Milan was no stranger to the bellowing rants and callous attitude of her brother. The differences in their ideology often led to heated debates which would place her at the firing end of his pubescent wrath. This extended to instances in which His Holiness asked for their council at times of indecision. Unfortunately, Francesco's mere presence was enough to frighten her younger brother, and as a result would eventually lead to him reluctantly agreeing with the Cardinal. It therefore went without saying, that there was absolutely no love loss between them.

"What depravity!" one of the cardinals exclaimed as discussion broke out amongst them.

"The audacity!"

"It was those damned vampires. I'm sure of it!" another added.

"Sister?" the young pope inquired, turning to the blonde woman for guidance.

Cardinal Caterina Sforza slowly opened her eyes, observing the current argument in dismay. It appeared the cardinals had already made up their minds regarding the matter, and if Francesco had his way, there would be quick and severe retaliation upon whomever they deemed responsible. At current, that appeared to be the vampires, despite the lack of any real evidence to support the assumption. That was, however, of little consequence. Most of the cardinals jumped with decadent glee at the opportunity to pin the blame on Methuselah, especially when it meant they could secure the rights to conduct a hostile attack.

"You must be strong in the face of adversity, Your Holiness. And patient. Further investigation is needed in order to determine…" she began, but was quickly interrupted.

"There is no time for such formalities, Your Holiness!" Cardinal Medici exclaimed with his usual dramatic flair, standing abruptly as his red robe billowed around him. "These vampires not only killed our men, men in the service of our Lord and Church, but mercilessly massacred an entire town of innocent civilians. We simply _cannot_ overlook this abhorrent attack upon the Church and its faithful!"

As Caterina listened, she wondered forlornly where his care for the innocent civilians had been moments prior when the report had been read. As usual, her brother was quick to amend his 'priorities'.

"Ah! Then w-what do we d-do?" Alessandro stammered timidly, evidently intimidated by his older sibling.

"There must be swift retaliation!" a cardinal declared.

"Indeed, this is an insult to our Church. No doubt those fiends are laughing their heads off at our expense. We cannot stand for such insubordination," another agreed.

"In order to find those responsible, _imperium in imperio_ must be declared in all surrounding regions in accordance with Vatican Law, Article Four immediately! The Inquisition shall then have no hindrance in their pursuit of these heinous perpetrators," Francesco stated with utmost fervor.

"Brother! You cannot be serious," Caterina exclaimed in pure disbelief, "You cannot impose martial law on foreign nations. Just consider the repercussions to our diplomatic relations!"

"_Invitat culpam qui peccatum praeterit (3)_. We will not sit back and do nothing, not when other towns and cities are threatened by a similar fate. We will find and strike down these fiends in a show of divine retribution. Our enemies will think twice before they choose to attack us again, and if a few feathers are to be ruffled, so be it! It is a small price to pay in assuring God's will is done," Francesco countered.

There were murmurs of approval and agreement from the remaining cardinals, and Francesco's smirk widened as a result. Alessandro could do nothing to quell the blood-lust of the mob before them, lacking the necessary conviction. He may have been pope, but he was still a young, and above all, inexperienced boy.

Caterina fixed a heavy stare on her older sibling, displeased with his evident display of carelessness. He failed to see, no, they _all_ failed to see that the world had changed. People would no longer view such archaic displays of power as necessary, or favorable. If the Vatican failed to change its policy and approach, vampires would soon become the least of its worries.

* * *

It was, in every sense of the word, a _very_ beautiful day. The birds were singing their merry song, the sun was shining brilliantly from atop its high plateau, and there was not a single cloud as far as the eye could see. Such days were an absolute blessing, capable of bringing about a sense of serenity to even the most distraught of individuals. They were also a pleasing rarity to those who worked with no end in sight, or who were denied such simple luxuries as a small vacation of sorts every once and a while. 

Vatican priest Father Abel Nightroad was no exception. Spending most of his time on missions for the AX, also known as the Vatican's Foreign Affairs department, there was often little to no time to truly kick back and relax. To enjoy the splendors of Mother Nature, in particular during such a calm, warm day, was the closest thing to a holiday, and an act he aptly enjoyed. For that reason, he was going to enjoy that morning break to his heart's content.

Whistling happily, at current within one of the Vatican's lush green courtyards, Abel brought a cup of warm tea to his lips. The smooth, syrupy liquor was like silk in his mouth, and he savored its slow descent down his throat. Naturally, it had been filled to the brim with a heap load of sugar; his foremost guilty pleasure. The sisters at the dining hall had watched on with pertinent amusement as he eagerly replaced one spoonful of sugar with another. The Mother Superior, however, wasn't as easily amused, and had given him a disapproving glare.

The old woman frightened him. He had heard various rumors about her from the younger sisters, and not one of them had been pleasant. As soon as her stern eye had fallen on him, he had made sure to get his cup of tea, a handful of shortbread biscuits he'd managed to stash away in his pockets, and himself, out of the room. It didn't bother him though, as he'd been planning to come out into the gardens. On the other hand, it did bother him that he'd missed out on the deliciously soft scones and rich strawberry jam.

He sighed at the thought as he consumed another sip of tea. He could always sneak into the kitchen if he wanted, and it wouldn't be the first time either. It was incredible if one were to assess the lengths he would go to for simple sweets. Gluttony was indeed a nefarious sin.

After another sip, he placed the cup on the bench next to him and reached into his pockets for the biscuits. His smile and cheerful expression suddenly fell, replaced by dismay and disbelief. Eyes and mouth wide open he hurriedly dug further into his pockets, finally bringing out his hands, palms facing the sky. He looked down at them solemnly. The biscuits had been crushed, and all that was left were crumbs in their place.

'How? How could this happen?!' he wondered dejectedly.

He could have sworn a dagger had pierced his heart as he stared down at the golden-brown mound. If anyone were to look at him then, they may have assumed he was just about ready to cry. Abel wouldn't be surprised if a stream _did_ appear from the corner of his crystal blue eyes.

"Why?" was all he whispered out loud, imploring the heavens to give him a reply.

"Abel," a voice called out, startling him out of his somber reverie.

He yelped in surprise, jumping right out of his seat. As a result, the biscuit crumbs flew right out of his palms before falling like rain onto the grass bellow. He lunged forward, trying to catch the few bits still in the air. Just because his biscuits had been reduced to a thousand tiny pieces didn't mean he wasn't going to eat them. They were still bits of sweet, brittle goodness.

In his desperate attempt, he accidentally stepped on his black robe, which in turn caused him to loose his balance and fall face forward onto the ground. He landed with a heavy thud on his chest, his small shriek dying on his lips. He groaned while opening his eyes to find the numerous crumbs scattered before him. A sparrow had landed, having identified the feast at its disposal. It pecked at the crumbs diligently, paying no heed to the distraught priest. Another two joined it, devouring his precious dessert. A low moan was his only response as he closed his eyes, ready to sulk.

"Abel!" the voice called out to him again with a little more force.

He quickly got to his feet as he looked for the source. His eyes turned to the pathway, donned by decorative Doric columns at its edges. Red and orangey-pink bougainvillea, resembling small crimson jewels, had attached themselves to the white columns. There, stood a sister with a pleasant smile gracing her soft, angelic features. Ebony black hair spilled atop white-clad shoulders, moving slightly with the breeze as she started to approach him.

Abel fought back a blush as he identified the familiar profile of Sister Noélle Bor. She was a pleasant individual with a good heart, but that did nothing to quell his anxiety when she was around him. The sister was, simply put, an incredibly attractive woman. Her slim figure and ideal curves were further exaggerated by the less-than-chaste dress she wore. He was surprised she'd gotten away with wearing such an altered version of the nun's uniform, but he for one wasn't about to complain.

He tried to shake the thought, but it was near-impossible seeing as she was right there in his line of sight. His eyes moved to the split going down her left thigh, exposing the black lace stockings beneath. His anxiety worsened. He was a priest, but he was also still a man. He couldn't help but appreciate her appearance, and choice wardrobe.

"Ah, good morning Sister Noélle! Beautiful day isn't it?" he greeted with a wide smile, extending his arms to emphasize his statement.

"Indeed it is Father," she concurred with her own smile, finally reaching his side.

In all his absent thinking, Abel had failed to notice the plate she'd been carrying. The smell of hot, freshly baked sweets instantly filled his nostrils. He deeply breathed in the mouthwatering scent with elated glee. Looking down at the plate she held before her considerable bust, Abel's eyes and grin suddenly widened. A trail of drool was also making its way down to his chin.

"Are those…?"

Noélle smiled knowingly. "Indeed they are Abel. I just took them out of the oven."

"May I?" he asked sheepishly as he reached for one but the sister slapped his hand away.

"Is that anyway to ask?" she lectured, feigning annoyance, "After I slaved away all morning; this is how you show your appreciation?!"

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" Abel declared, falling to his knees, feeling another dagger pierce his heart. "You forgive me, don't you, lovable Noélle? Whose name is like a sweet song; Noélle… Noélle… Nooooooéééélllle…."

"Abel!" the sister shouted, cutting into his song of her name. It was a sweet gesture, if not ruined by his terrible singing voice.

"I'm sorry!" he apologized again, crossing his hands in a show of forgiveness. "May I please have one? Pretty please? You are such a kind person, and very nice, and…and have the face of an angel! Oh goddess of sweet desserts, please forgive me!"

"Well, seeing as you asked so nicely, you can have one," she said, satisfied with his begging.

"Ah! Thank you!" Abel exclaimed ecstatically through a wide grin, jumping up into the air.

He slowly and carefully took one of the strawberry jam filled, sugar powdered doughnuts from the plate. It squished a little between his fingers as he brought the warm pastry to his lips. Slowly, he took his first bite, savoring the sweet fruit centre and crusty sugary dough as he munched. He took another bite, rolling the piece with his tongue as he moaned agreeably. Unable to keep up the leisurely pace, he took a larger bite, eagerly devouring the piece before sinking his teeth into it again.

"They're that good?" Noélle asked happily.

"Mmm-hmm," he moaned over a mouthful, nodding eagerly. 'Definitely better than any scone, or shortbread biscuit' he thought to himself happily.

Noélle saw the disappointment on his face once he finished the last piece. Fortunately for him, she detested seeing that look, even if it was over something as trivial as a doughnut. It would often make her stomach turn, and her hands to involuntarily tremble. Being an Empath meant she was far more susceptible to other people's emotions, especially those she cared for. Where Abel was concerned, nothing was lost on her. And she felt everything.

"Here, I think you earned a second one. But no more until after lunch, you hear?" she told him sternly, pointing the doughnut at him.

"Really?! Wow, you're the best Noélle," he declared jumping up and down before taking the offered pastry.

His fingers brushed against hers as he did, and she instantly tensed up as a result. He didn't seem to notice, occupied with the doughnut now in his hand. As always, he was blind to such reactions. She laughed shakily before regaining her composure.

"And don't you forget that," she told him in a harder tone, despite her smile.

Alerted to the sound of approaching footsteps, Abel looked towards the pathway once again. The tall, stoic and above all imposing figure of fellow AX agent Father Tres Iqus stood out against the beautifully still scenery. He looked towards them briefly before closing the distance. He stopped once he was a meter away, as always, his expression revealing nothing in regards to his purpose or systematic thoughts. After regarding Noélle for a couple of seconds, he turned towards the tall, silver-haired priest.

"Father Tres! What brings you here this lovely morning?" Abel asked.

"Father Nightroad, Lady Caterina has asked to see you."

* * *

"I don't like this," Caterina stated over her cup of tea. 

It had been twenty minutes since the emergency meeting had come to a close. As always, her brother's actions meant she was going to have her work cut out for her. As Minister of Foreign Affairs, it was her responsibility to ensure relations with other states remained favorable. That would soon prove to be a difficult endeavor if the Inquisition took it upon themselves to impose on every sovereign nation that could be found on a map. She desperately needed to find a reason to prevent that from happening. She needed her own people, who she trusted with her life, to investigate the incident and find out what really happened.

"I apologize for the delay in attaining any further intelligence reports, Lady Caterina. However, the Inquisitorial Department has placed a censor on all incoming information considering the nature of the incident. It will be some time before we can gain access," a holographic image of a blonde nun relayed.

Sister Kate Scott was a very old friend of the Cardinal, as well as a member of AX. She was a kind and pleasing individual with a talent for uncovering even the most obscure pieces of information. She was a highly competent captain as well, in charge of the Vatican battleship _Iron Maiden_. Her tea was another testament to her skills, as she was able to concoct some of the most pleasant and satisfying blends to be had.

"That is quite alright Sister Kate. I wasn't expecting any favors from the Inquisition."

The rivalry between the Duke of Florence and the Duchess of Milan extended to their department agencies, the Inquisition and AX respectively. Despite being on the same side, working for a similar cause, disagreements and conflict between the two was a constant. If only they could get over their differences, put an end to the petty internal fighting, they would be able to achieve so much more.

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a light knock at her office door. Sister Kate looked towards it before returning her attention to the Cardinal.

"It would appear Father Nightroad has arrived. With your permission my Lady, I ought to take my leave now, and contact you when I'm able to find something of value to this case."

"Yes, and thank you Sister," Caterina said as the hologram disappeared from its place on the floor before her desk. Turning her attention to the door, she eased back a little on her seat.

"Come in."

The door opened a margin before the silver head of the priest appeared through the space. A lighthearted expression graced his features, and his smile not only lightened the room, but her current mood as well. A corner of her lips turned upright into what could be called a half smile. She couldn't help it; his goofy grin was quite contagious despite the circumstances. Then again, the mere sight of Abel Nightroad was often enough to bring a smile to her face.

She had known him for an even longer time than Kate, and considered him to be one of her closest and trusted friends. What he had done for her; from saving her from vampire assassins when she was still a child, to putting his life on the line to protect not just the church but human beings as well, was unparallel to anything else. He was also, despite his appearance of a clumsy and idiotic priest, her greatest and most secret weapon.

"Good morning Abel," she greeted gently.

"Good morning Lady Caterina. A fine day isn't it?" he asked merrily as he closed the door behind him.

"I'm sure it is," she whispered tiredly, realizing she had yet to go out or eat a proper morning meal. There were many more important matters to attend to.

"Is there something I can do for you?" he asked seriously, picking up on her thoughts.

"Yes, there is. I need you to go and investigate an incident that took place in a small town just outside Prešov in the Moravia region. A number of the town's people, as well as an entire legion of Inquisitorial Guards were murdered. We have yet to receive any further intelligence beyond that, so I would like you to go there and see what you can find," she briefed, noticing a flicker of emotion in his light blue eyes.

"I understand."

"You leave at once. Here is your train ticket and papers," she stated, handing them to him, "Good luck Abel, and may the Lord be with you."

"Good day, Lady Caterina," Abel finalized with a small bow before walking out. Once outside, he was surprised to see Sister Noélle waiting for him.

"I heard you were leaving on another mission, so I figured I should wrap these up to go," Noélle said, handing him a small paper bag, "Just don't eat them all at once."

"Thank you Noélle," he said softly, offering her a genuine smile. He saw a flash of something in her eyes, perhaps sorrow, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

"Take care of yourself, Abel," she finalized with a smile before turning around, taking her leave before he could say another word.

* * *

_(1) Quoted from the poem 'The Spider and the Fly' (1829) by Mary Howitt;  
"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the spider to the fly."_

_(2) Indirect quote from 'The Book of Martyrs' (1563) by John Foxe;_  
"_Such was the Inquisition, declared by the Spirit of God to be at once the offspring and the image of the popedom."_

_(3) Quoted from 'Sententiae' (Sentences), a collection of moral maxims by Publilius Syrus;_  
"_Invitat culpam qui peccatum praeterit."  
- "Pardon one offence and you encourage the commission of many."  
Sententiae, being a tool of scholasticism, were highly popular in the Middle Ages as a form of rhetoric. Interestingly, they were used by St. Augustine of Hippo to convince the Church of the value of rhetoric, which was frowned upon by many churchmen as it was associated with paganism. How the times have changed. _


	2. Part II

Author's Note: With end-of-year exams out of the way, I'll hopefully be able to make more regular updates on this. That is, if the accursed summer heat doesn't get to me, which really does strain the creative process.  
Also, thank you to dlight, Lex, Crimson Melancholy, Qto, wanderingassassin, soupcan, lady claire and IVIaedhros for your reviews.

* * *

Part II 

_Can I see another's woe,  
And not be in sorrow too?  
Can I see another's grief,  
And not seek for kind relief?  
- William__ Blake_

The world was silent. Even the passing breeze made little sound; its existence confirmed only by the cool, invisible caresses it left upon the skin of the minor few in the area. Occasionally, the silence was disturbed only by the calls and whistles of the ravens that had been drawn forth by the scent of death. They circled overhead; their black silhouettes a portrait of ominous doom as they waited, ever so patiently, for the chance to dive down and feast upon the rotting flesh of the dead.

Abel eyed the birds tiredly. His journey into Prešov had been long and highly tedious. His thoughts along the way had been filled with images of bloody corpses; his imagination having taken it upon itself to illustrate the scene that awaited him in the small town. He was no stranger to the sorrow and horrors of war, and he'd seen the limits of human suffering. He doubted the massacre up ahead was anything he'd never seen before.

Nevertheless, even if a tragic scene was marked by similarities of past expeditions, it never quite made his job any easier. Instances of familiarity often conjured up vile recollections from his dark past. They were memories he'd rather forget than recall, but the fates would never be so forgiving. Nor should they ever be.

As he made his way further into town, the several odd crows that had perched themselves atop old, withering abodes seemed to follow his every move. They turned their heads in unison as he passed by, their endless black eyes trained entirely upon his being. It was an almost uncanny gesture, and only added to the unwholesome atmosphere that the area exuded.

His gaze left the ghastly creatures, and instead ventured onto the dreary heavens above. They were a stark contrast to the warm blue skies of Rome, of which he'd been appreciating earlier that day. Conversely, there was not a patch of blue to be seen. A blanket of dark clouds had instead covered the sky. A blanket so thick it even devoured Helios' light, leaving the land beneath in bleak dimness.

Spotting what he figured to be a local authority talking to a young woman, he promptly made his way towards them. The figure must have been a detective, dressed in a stereotypical old brown trench coat, and in the process of taking notes on a small pad. As he neared, the woman turned to look at him. Her exhausted features morphed into something hard and unwelcome upon examining him. After a few quick words to the officer, she brusquely turned and disappeared into a corner street.

The detective, a burly man in his forties with extensive grey hairs, turned to look at him. He let out a long sigh as he closed and pocketed the note book, just as Abel reached his side.

"Good afternoon. I am Father Abel Nightroad of the Ministry of Holy Affairs. I've been sent to investigate…" he began, but was promptly interrupted by the detective.

"I didn't think they'd be sending more of your kind, not when you consider the number that has already passed through here in the last twenty hours."

"Ah, that would be because we're from different departments."

"Hn," the man grunted under his breath, his expression suddenly exasperated. "I'll show you to the rest of your friends. Follow me."

Before Abel could say anything, the detective had already turned and started making his way down the main road. Brushing off his abrupt mood change, the priest ran several steps in order to catch up to him. No other words were said. Abel wondered whether the detective was feeling the awkward silence as much as he, and thus opted to make conversation, starting with his condolences.

"I'm truly sorry for… ouch!" he yelped in surprise as something struck his shin hard.

Looking down, he saw a small boy no older than eight sitting on the ground in front of his feet. He was occupied with brushing the dirt from the fall off his pants, and not once did he look up at the tall, slim priest.

"Hey there, are you alright?" Abel asked with a smile, offering his hand to help hoist the child up.

The boy looked at the hand in front of him, and then up at the face of the priest. Abel was shocked by his heated glare, as well as the hate evident in his dark almond eyes. The intensity was so profound he wouldn't have been surprised if a flame had ignited itself behind each iris. Without hesitation, the boy slapped his offered hand away with as much force as he could muster, before sitting up and disappearing into an alleyway.

"Ah! W-wait a minute," he called out, perturbed by the unwarranted reaction.

He didn't believe he'd ever seen a child so young so full of hate; a hate that just happened to be directed at him. He expected such a reaction of loathing from vampires, but not from a human.

"Don't bother," the detective called out from up ahead. "You shouldn't expect a warm welcome."

The man turned to look at him as Abel tried to comprehend the meaning behind those words, but the officer elaborated on his behalf. "They blame you lot for what happened here."

"Us?" he whispered, his mind already whirling with the revelation. They blamed them? The Church?

"We should get a move on. It's a good forty minute walk to the old ruins, and I suspect you don't have much time to spare" the detective stated plainly, already on the move.

Abel followed at his own pace as his mind worked around what he'd just been told. Feeling the unsettling and intrusive sensation that came with being watched, he looked around self-consciously. Several of the townspeople fortunate enough to have been spared were standing out on the footpaths or looking through their windows.

Resignation, grief, trepidation and, above all else, abhorrence was evident across each and every rigid expression. The heated glares held by reddened eyes, exhausted from crying streams of tears, followed his every step. They were accusing, unforgiving, and marked him an instant outcast. The message wordlessly told was apparent: they wanted him gone.

Abel sympathized with them almost instantly. He too knew all too well the pain of losing someone close, someone you loved. And to look into their eyes, to see first hand the depths of their sorrow and pain, how could he too not be swayed? What he could not fathom however, was why they were looking upon him as if he were the enemy.

"The Inquisition was pretty adamant about coming here" the detective suddenly said, perhaps having sensed his confusion as to the current hostility he was bearing witness to. "They claimed their intelligence indicated several vampires from an extremist group high up on their wanted list had set up a safe house in the area. Naturally we protested, as the suggestion was ludicrous. We're a small town, we all know each other, and there's little that can happen without someone catching drift of it. Plus there was nothing to suggest vampires had moved in; no suspicious deaths or disappearances, nothing.

"Of course the Inquisitorial Department wouldn't hear a word of it. They boast their intelligence is second to none, so according to them there was no way their information could have been false. They came in here three days ago and turned the place inside out despite our protests. The lieutenant spewed out some Canon Law nonsense, said they'd arrest anyone who disrupted their investigation. Naturally they didn't find anything, but trouble found them. The way the townspeople see it, if this was a vampire attack, than your Church is responsible for bringing them here."

Abel listened to the detective carefully as an intricate sense of unease consumed him. The Inquisition was the most stubborn and radical of Vatican departments, but not even they would commission such an escapade if there was no apparent cause. Could their intelligence have been so disastrously wrong? Or had they been lured onto the stage of this tragic play? If so, by whom and for what reason?

He had no answers, but he promised himself he'd learn the truth of what happened there. If not to find the perpetrators, than to bring some closure to the remaining townspeople who had lost so much.

Evidence of their sorrow continued to find him, as his ears suddenly picked up on muffled cries upon entering another street. There didn't seem to be a single source, the screams echoing from every angle. He turned towards a window on the second floor of a terrace building and caught the gaze of a middle-aged woman looking down at him. Tears were trailing down her face, her weary eyes saying more than words ever could. Disgust instantly claimed her features as she forcefully shut the curtains, ending his observation.

"Are there any witnesses?" he asked, trying to put his mind on the case at hand.

"None so far, and I don't believe we'll find any either."

"What of the victims? Is there anything you can tell as to how they were murdered?"

"You haven't read the report?!" the detective asked incredulously.

"Well," Abel explained sheepishly, "I haven't received much of a report. Or any updates for that matter."

"I'm not even going to try to understand how you lot do things," he sighed in exasperation. "Most of them were cut."

"Cut?"

"In halves, or threes, or fours. Limbs and heads were severed as well. A few were stabbed and or slashed, but I'm sure you get the general idea."

"You mean all six-hundred were…!"

"That number has now officially become six-hundred and sixteen. And yes, they were all killed that way," the detective interrupted, quickening his pace. His tone unexpectedly turned low and grave. "Not even the women or children were spared. Whoever did this has sociopathic tendencies the likes of which I've never seen before."

Abel closed his eyes in solemn deliberation. It was a regrettable truth, but he had come to see much worse in his time. However the detective was right, the individuals responsible for the attack were cold, psychopathic monsters. To massacre innocent civilians in such a way was clearly… inhuman.

The rest of the walk went by in silence, the conversation having died with nothing left to revive it. As they neared the end of town, the scent of burning flesh hit Abel hard in the face. He looked towards the distance and saw the tall, dark smoke of what must have been a massive pyre merging with the grey clouds covering the heavens. They had begun burning the dead.

"This is as far as I can take you," the detective stated, coming to a stop.

The buildings of homes and small businesses had come to an end a few minutes prior. They were just a few meters away from the Torysa riverbank, and an expanse of green plains and trees, currently desolate in appearance due to the atmosphere, followed as far as the eye could see.

"Considering we've yet to receive any assistance from the Inquisition with the investigation, I'm needed back in town. There are still a lot of people left to interview, not to mention a mountain of paperwork waiting on my desk. Just follow the path westward from here and you'll reach the ruins in fifteen minutes or so."

"Uh, thank you," Abel called out as the man turned and left, without so much as a second glance.

He wasn't piqued by the officer's attitude or hard tone. The Church certainly hadn't helped matters there, and he'd probably felt inconvenienced at having to play chaperone to him. Instead, Abel pondered over what he'd been told, in regards to the Inquisition's presence there and the method of attack as he followed the path.

Vampires wouldn't go to such lengths to ambush a legion of Inquisitorial guards, not when harsh retaliation was an absolute definite. Even extremists would be wary of the consequent fallout. If their aim was, from what he had deduced during his time as an AX agent, to cripple the Vatican, they would likely have chosen a more imperative target and orchestrated an offense that showed signs of scrupulous preparation and planning. An attack on a small legion could hardly be seen as a severe blow, not to mention it appeared almost careless in its execution. Something concerning the whole scenario was most definitely amiss, his instincts insisted on it.

Spotting tall arcs and pillars, not to mention a high concentration of red-robed individuals at the end of the trail, he sped up his pace. After several steps however he couldn't help but gag; the air suddenly thick and permeated with sordid decay. Placing a hand over his mouth and nose, he approached the scene.

Several men made their way towards him, most likely to turn him away, but ceased in mid-step when they recognized his priestly robes. He made it through with little incident, but was promptly stopped by a young blonde male before he could proceed into the area.

"What business have you here?" he demanded, blocking his path.

"Oh, I am Father Abel Nightroad of the Ministry of Holy Affairs. Perhaps I should be having this conversation with your commanding officer…" he began but trailed off upon seeing the young man's pointedly annoyed gaze and expression.

"I'll have you know I'm a Lieutenant-Colonel, and the second-in-command here. With that under consideration, I'm to assume you have no further issues dealing with me. Am I right, Father Nightroad?" he asked, hands fixed to his sides.

"Ah! Yes, of course," he agreed with a lopsided grin, rubbing the back of his head wearily.

"Your papers?" the Colonel requested impatiently, sticking out his hand.

Abel handed them over after digging through an inside pocket, dismissing the man's evident haughtiness. It seemed to be a popular trait among many at the Inquisitorial Department.

"These appear to be in order," he declared after skimming through them. "You may have a look around, but if you impede our investigation in any way, I will have you removed. Understood?"

"Certainly. I don't wish for there to be any quarrels between us, I'm looking forward to working with you. After all, we are on the same… hey, wait!" Abel called after the Colonel who'd handed him back his papers, only to turn and walk off.

Catching up to him they both made their way into the innermost clearing, at which point Abel had practically stopped breathing. The pungent stench was positively overwhelming at that point, but he paid little heed to it. Instead he was utterly engrossed with what he saw before him.

"This… is horrible," he whispered gravely.

Words could not describe the horrors that held his eyes captive. The torturous state of what was left of the former guards was unfathomable. They had literally been shredded, limbs and torsos scattered about amidst a drying pool of blood. And there was much blood; painting the world a thin, slick layer of red. Internal organs lay exposed, a choice selection for the accumulating flies converging upon the area in masses.

Abel swallowed hard, pushing his thick round glasses higher up his elegantly pointed nose. There was little time for reservations, so he instantly set about scanning the scene for anything minutely suspicious or out of place.

"It's hard to believe our brothers fell in such a way. They were a strong, valiant group of men; they shouldn't have been overwhelmed by those parasites," the Colonel said.

"Even the bravest are frightened by sudden terrors _(1)_," Abel whispered absently as he scanned the mutilated bodies.

"I take great offense to that," the blonde male barked just as he finished the sentence, "How dare you insult their memory by suggesting they died cowards?!"

"W-what? I didn't say that; fear and cowardice aren't necessarily the same…" Abel began in defense, but stopped once he noticed something rather peculiar.

"Don't play word games with me, Father! I have the right piece of mind to throw you…."

"Did anyone else come through here? Besides your men," he asked simply.

"What? No. We were the first on scene," the blonde replied tightly, crossing his arms.

"Are you absolutely certain?"

"If I said we were the only ones, then we _were_ the only ones. Why?" he asked suspiciously.

Abel bent down as he examined the footprints in the blood. He followed the path they divulged around the area, up to and around where the Inquisition's men had fallen. He could easily make out the footfalls of battle, and what he surmised nearly made his blood run cold.

"There was only one," he whispered out loud.

"What?!_ One_ vampire did all this? You can't be serious!"

"Look at these footprints," Abel urged.

Sighing loudly in evident annoyance and frustration, the Colonel scuffed his boot against the ground before crouching down for a closer inspection. It soon dawned on him that the priest was very well onto something, for besides the standard issue footwear of the Inquisitorial forces, there was only one other set of prints. No more, no less.

"It's impossible!" he declared with a shaky laugh, coming to a stand. "Impossible. One vampire alone could not do all this!"

He was in adamant denial, but not without reason. The Inquisition was not an incompetent band; its soldiers were well trained and an entire legion could more than handle a single vampire. However the evidence spoke the actual truth of the matter; there had only been one assailant, and however unfavorable the odds, they had brought these men of God to their knees.

Abel dismissed the blonde man's rampant pacing and inaudible mutters, his gaze instead venturing onto the still ravens perched atop high columns. One took a dive, gliding synonymously with the wind, before landing atop the corpse closest to him. Reluctant to witness any further dishonor done to the dead, the priest attempted to dissuade the bird. His hand passed over it, but the stubborn creature proceeded to hop onto the body's head in defiance. Again he moved his hand, this time successfully persuading it to take flight.

Exhaling tiredly, his gaze briefly passed over the fallen man's face, the expression frozen in a distraught show of the terrors marking the final minutes before his demise. His eyes moved to the chest area, noting the absence of blood, and that split second glance was all it took to trigger an inquisitive thought.

He moved the man's head to the side as he intently examined the neck from all angles. It was intact. Another thought occurred to him then; a truly implausible thought that only served to heighten his apprehension. Cautiously, he proceeded to examine the rest nearby.

"There are no bite marks," Abel stated softly, his attention entirely on the corpses.

"Excuse me?" the Colonel inquired with a raised eyebrow.

"There are no bite marks, not on a single one of these bodies," he reiterated as he paced around the still carcasses.

His assessment appeared to be correct, as he continuously failed to see the one definitive piece of evidence that would confirm vampires carried out the assault. All the while, he'd felt the unsettling sensations that stemmed from scrupulous inconsistencies whilst assessing the situation. Something wasn't right, and the current revelation only served to further dumbfound him.

"So?" the blonde asked, ignorant of the meaning behind the discovery.

"So, tell me of a single Methuselah that ever carried out such an attack and didn't feed."

"Wait a minute. First you say a single individual was responsible for this blood bath, and now you say _that_ individual isn't even a vampire?!"

It was an outrageous claim, Abel knew as much. There were very few creatures in the world as it was, all of which he could count off from the fingers of one of his hands. A vampire alone could not have done what he saw before him, let alone a human. But the reality of the situation was staring at him clear in the face.

"Human or not, one thing is certain Colonel," Abel stated sincerely, pushing his glasses back up. "This was no vampire attack. Of that, I assure you."

* * *

"That was Father Nightroads' latest report," Sister Kate finalized after informing the Cardinal of the priest's findings. 

"I see," Caterina said as she placed her elbows on the desk, leaning her chin atop crossed hands.

The blonde woman's eyes narrowed as she puzzled over the details she'd just heard. Both the guards and townspeople had been unbeknownst participants in a cruel dance of fate. A dance she could neither assess nor comprehend.

Abel's findings had truly surprised her. She'd had an inking suspicion since hearing of the attack that there was certainly more to it than the other cardinals liked to think, but not even she had expected such an actuality. To think there had only been one assailant, who may not have even been a vampire, was undeniably alarming.

She couldn't think of many humans who would want – or dare – directly oppose the Vatican in such a way, let alone posses the abilities to annihilate an entire Inquisitorial legion alone. Whilst she'd been hoping Abel's investigation would bear fruit, it had only brought to light many more unanswerable questions.

Though one thing was certain; she was going to have her hands full trying to ease tensions with the people of Prešov and governing authorities of Moravia. The expedition of an entire legion into the area hadn't received collective approval, and whilst the Inquisition was in the habit of doing what they pleased, when they pleased – so long as they proved effective and successful – their shortcomings in this case would not go unnoticed. She made a mental note to bring up this supercilious attitude with her brother during the next cardinal's meeting.

"It's all rather peculiar, isn't it?" Kate asked, her hologram flickering slightly.

"Indeed it is," she sighed, massaging her forehead absently; as if the mere action alone would chase her troubles away. "Have Crusnik return once he's finished up, pending re-assignment. There's little more he can do there."

"I'll pass that onto him."

"I assume Sword Dancer has also made contact?" the Cardinal asked, tone level.

The swordsman was, like all her people, an invaluable asset. However the unresolved issues of his past, coupled by his prolonged hate for Methuselah, meant he'd regularly disappear on individual pursuits with a total disregard for her orders. This show of insubordination almost always tried her patience.

"That he has. He's currently following up on the Prešov incident, and was last making inquiries in Klatovy, Bohemia."

"Very well. If he comes across anything, have him report in at once."

* * *

It was a still, silent night save the sound of frantic strides and desperate gasps. The teenage girl's breathing was harsh and rapid to her ears; the uneven tempo only slightly louder than the beating heart in her chest, threatening to burst with every strained beat. She inhaled deeply, trying to satisfy the burning thirst of her lungs with as much oxygen as she could take in. It did little good, as she was slowly approaching the limits imposed by her futile physicality. 

Cold sweat could be felt rolling down her face, coupled by tears of desperation. Her mouth would have been dry otherwise, but their salty residue dominated her palate. Her legs were heavy, muscles exhausted as they screamed for release amidst the rising levels of lactic acid. Her sides too were feeling the numbing pain of her distressed, unrelenting pace. And yet she still ran.

She'd woken with a start upon hearing a blood curling scream, the terrifying sound cutting into her deep slumber like a spear through the temple. With it echoing endlessly in her head, over and over again in a merciless manner, she'd lost all reasoning, and had foolishly proceeded down into the living room. Her only hope then as she recalled the unfortunate decision was that it not become her final mistake.

Her bare foot had landed in something warm and wet once she'd reached the end of the stairs. Alarmed, she'd turned on the lights, only to then be thrown into a hellish nightmare of a reality far beyond anything she could have ever imagined. Both her parents had been lying on the floor amidst a pool of their own blood, their stomachs split open, and entrails practically hanging out.

She'd frozen in pure disbelief, disinclined to accept the distorted, improbable sight before her. Her vigorous refutation however did nothing to still the tremors that began to claim her being, or the inaudible pleas leaving her parted lips, pleas begging a higher power that what she was witnessing was some horrid figment of her imagination. She'd turned away, under the impression the scene would disappear if she didn't look at it. And then she saw _him_, hidden in the shadows dominating a corner, untouched by the dim light.

He had been staring right at her, his cold, black emotionless eyes locking with her own. After a brief moment of consideration he smiled, and she practically lost all sensation in her body. He took a step forward, his glare suddenly tinged with mockery. He almost seemed to materialize from the darkness in that it not only surrounded him, but appeared to penetrate him as well.

She'd broken into a cold sweat, realizing the danger he posed. She didn't know how she'd accomplished the feat, but before she knew it, she had willed her frozen limbs to move as she stormed out of the house. All she could do was run, faster and faster as she sensed his invisible presence closing in on her. It was ridiculous, but somehow she knew he was right behind her even if she couldn't see him.

She tried opening doors, banging on one after the other in the hopes that someone would come out and save her. But no one answered, her hope plummeting with every failure, and she immediately felt more alone than she'd had in her entire life.

"Help! Help me, please!" she cried and begged, trying several more houses with no luck.

Frantic, she gave up on door-knocking; breaking into a sprint once again as she headed for the one place she knew would be open to her. Hastily brushing away hair from the front of her face, she made her way towards the Archdeacon's Church at the end of the road.

Paying little heed to the ominous bloody moon staining the clear black sky directly above, she pressed hard against the wooden door, her fingers bending back uncomfortably with the weight of it. And with a silent prayer, she disappeared into the house of her Lord.

* * *

_() Opening quote is from the first segment of the poem "On Another's Sorrow", in 'Songs of Innocence' (1789) by William__ Blake._

_(1)__ Indirect quote from 'The Annals' (ca. 117) by Publius Cornelius Tacitus;  
"Etiam fortes viros subitis terreri."  
- "Even the bravest men are frightened by sudden terrors."  
- Book XV, 59_


	3. Part III

Author's Note: First and foremost, I'd like to apologize for the wait on this chapter. Unfortunately, the summer break proved difficult where motivation was concerned, so this literally took ages to write.  
Secondly, thank you to IVIaedhros, lady claire, Lex, dare4more, FieryRose and Crimson Melancholy for your reviews.

* * *

Part III

_Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,  
__I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.  
- Psalm 23:4_

AX agent Hugue de Watteu soundlessly made his way through the lifeless streets of Klatovy, and as per his conditioned nature, maintained a high degree of attentiveness despite the tranquil scene. It was a little after midnight, and whilst all of the town's populace was dreaming soundlessly in their sleep, he wandered listlessly; his cloaked being concealed by the shadows he adamantly kept to.

His pace was brusque; sign of a man who had much to do, and yet, so much little time to do it all in. Despite his determined strides, his footfalls were silent, illustrating the level of expertise training the young priest possessed. As he moved, one with the shadows of night, practically non-existent to the rest of the world, he remained acutely aware of everything around him. The direction of the wind, the distant calls of night birds and crickets, the full moon casting a soft illumination over the area, and the ever-changing scenery before him.

On the surface, not a single thing seemed out of place in the small town; shrouded in a veil of equanimity and repose. But beneath it all, beneath the calm, Hugue was certain a storm of sorts was silently brewing, waiting for the opportune moment to cast a dark shade over the unsuspecting city.

After having carefully examined the Prešov case-file, he'd come to the conclusion the assailant would head west, instead of east towards the Empire, as most in the Church's ranks obstinately assumed. Whilst it made sense their suspect would head to the one place wherein they would escape the Vatican's persecution; a trusted haven shining fiercely in despair, a piece of salvation… a glimmer of bitter-sweet hope, like so many had desperately scurried to before them, Hugue was convinced of the contrary.

True, such an action would not follow the mindset of the conventional vampire, but the priest was certain they weren't dealing with anyone particularly ordinary. The style of attack and its execution alone told him more about their opponent than any dialog or interrogation ever could. The assault had been brutal yet deliberate, its only purpose to dissuade and antagonise.

Such a care-free attack, whilst clumsy and thoughtless on the surface, could not have been carried out with such confidence as it had if not coupled by scrutinized preparation. The signs were there; the speed with which all those people had been killed, the skill in having wiped out an entire Inquisitorial legion, and the savoir faire in having done so without so much as leaving a single trace to confirm this spectre killer's existence, save the long string of mutilated, bloodied corpses left in their wake.

Neither escape, nor capture, was part of their assailant's plans. They'd predicted the Vatican's actions down to the last man, and had taken advantage their imprudent predecessors' tendencies to flee to the Empire in moments of apprehension. Deceive the heavens to cross the ocean _(1)_… it was an ingenious strategy. The Inquisition's exhausted efforts plundering the Eastern states and setting up checkpoints would prove futile, and beget no results.

Having taken it upon himself to investigate probable destinations the killer may set off to, eliminating towns that would be harder to get into unnoticed, those with apathetic or non-existent relationships with Rome, and who didn't fall well within a reasonable radius of accessibility – taking into account time constraints and terrain – Hugue had reduced the number to a mere handful. Klatovy had been first on the list, and whilst it seemed the most likely given it coincided with all his initial assessments, his instincts had also insisted upon the town's significance. He had come to rely greatly on such inner intuitions, as they had often been right on more than one occasion in the past.

Continuing down a path of cautious scrutiny, failing to see anything even remotely suspect concealed among the silent umbrage of alleys and streets, Hugue began to suspect that there was quite possibly no hidden danger lurking about in that part of the world. And then it occurred to him that perhaps it was just a tad too quiet, as he slowly registered the sudden absence of any and all sound.

Heightening his level of awareness, instantly on guard, he pressed himself further against the walls, as if the act alone would succeed in merging him entirely with the shadows, and thus render him imperceptible. Slowly, he began to notice other little things that were biting away at his steadfast composure; the unwholesome aura – an allusion to the ghostly presence of Death himself – creeping across the pitch-black streets, the self-conscious sensation that came with being watched, despite his evident failure to pinpoint the source, or _any_ signs of life for that matter, and the spectral hue that shortly followed, enveloping the town like a phantom plague.

Turning his gaze towards the heavens, he noted the full moon's defiled deviation with bewilderment and mild apprehension. As if stained by blood, its radiant glow painting the world an insalubrious red, his mind began to fill with images of prowling fiends roaming about tainted lands with grievous intent. In all his time, his eyes had never bared witness to such a phenomenon, nor had he ever heard of such an occurrence beyond folk tales and works of exaggerated fiction aimed at inspiring fear in the hearts of readers.

The unexpected manifestation could only have been an omen, an ill-fated omen, a warning to all who may have had the untimely pleasure of glancing up and witnessing the grave display.

Disregarding any reservations, the priest tightly clutched the dependable metal staff resting against his back as he continued his venture deeper into the town. He came to an instant halt, however, when he heard what had sounded like a scream. He strained his ears for any other sound, but was met by silence. Minute after minute passed as he attempted to determine the location of what he'd heard, the growing stillness slowly biting away at his sanity. He didn't have to wait too long.

Once again the disturbing serenity was shattered by a piercing shriek, softened considerably by distance, but still reaching him courtesy of his heightened senses. Before he could process another thought, his body had already begun moving, darting towards the helpless cry with utmost speed and resolve. Inwardly praying he'd reach the victim in time, he also couldn't help but silently curse his luck; his hunch had been right.

Another scream followed, only this time it stretched out, burning into his mind as he identified the intense anguish and despair behind it. Making his way towards the cries, he urged his legs to move at a greater pace as his jaw tightened in desperation; he simply could not allow for anymore victims.

Silence once again engulfed the world. He stopped briefly, adjusting to the sudden change, before making his way back down the road. He'd more or less determined the direction he had to follow before the reticence. His only hope was that he wasn't already too late.

The small street ended with a church, more precisely the Archdeacon's Church of the Virgin Mary. It was the oldest building in Klatovy, built long before Armageddon and having survived to the present day. Its Gothic architecture, normally a revered homage to the classical days of old, now invoked a sense of dread as it stood tall, surrounded by shadows tinged with red, against the backdrop of that large, crimson moon. No longer did it portray a house of God, but a house of Death.

Exhaling heavily, his mind illustrating on his behalf the various scenes – neither favourable – of what possibly waited for him within, he wasted no time opening the large, heavy doors. The church's interior was absent of any proper lighting; even the candles had gone out. Nonetheless, moonlight and illumination from the few streetlamps out by the road seeped through the stain-glass windows, coating the place with an eerie, bluish glow. He stilled himself, emerald green eyes carefully surveying the scene before him, and at the very end of the nave, lounging atop the altar, was a man.

Holding tightly to his staff, he slowly made his way forward, passing rows of pews as he neared the anomalous stranger. Evidently dismissing his existence, the man's eyes remained glued to the wall across from him as he twirled a full bloom rose in front of his lips. Hugue proceeded cautiously; an unsettling sensation growing at the pit of his stomach with every step. Something was terribly off with the lolled individual, and whilst he couldn't put a finger on what that something was, he couldn't ignore the whispers of alarm titillating his thoughts and being.

As soon as he was several odd meters away from the altar, the stranger before him angled his head slightly, his cold, dead black eyes meeting his. Hugue instantly came to a halt as those haunting orbs found their mark, almost freezing him in place as they unravelled the crevasses of his inner mind and soul. And then, he smiled.

His smile unnerved the priest more than anything yet; more than the uncanny aura that hummed around him like snapping energy, and more than those lifeless eyes, capable of inspiring wave after wave of untamed fear to those who happened to look upon them. His smile – if it could even be called that – was malicious and ravenous, akin to that of a ghastly hunter having trapped, and ready to toy with, its prey.

Many would have noted the warning calls stemmed forth by the morbid ambience surrounding the man, and as a consequence, would have allowed themselves to be thrown into the shallow depths of fear and irrationality. He too would have followed in after them if not for his hardened valour, tenacity, and above all, his faith. Jaw tight; brushing away any lingering instances of intimidation, he began to close the gap between them.

The stranger turned his head fully then; the moonlight from the nearest window spilling onto his face and allowing Hugue a detailed inspection. He was oddly attractive, angelic even, but there was nothing saintly to his somewhat effeminate features. Rather, the contours of his long face harboured a distinctly sinister edge, shadowed by slightly long, brown hair. Scarlet obtrusively stood out against the porcelain white of his skin. The faint rouge covered his lips; fashioned like Cupid's bow, as well as his eyes, outlining them and coming to an end before his temples with a pointed tip.

It was wrong. All of it was wrong; the scarlet moon shining balefully outside, the lifeless spate engulfing the city, and the disconcerting presence of the… the _thing_, inhuman in almost all respects, sitting atop the holy altar, smiling portentously down at him.

"Night would invade, but there the neighbouring moon through mid heaven, with borrowed light her countenance triform hence fills and empties to enlighten the Earth, and in her crimson dominion checks the night _(2)_," said the man abruptly, voice soft and languid, his gaze once again on the wall and up at the window. "Tell me that you've never seen a moon quite like this."

Hugue's strides came to an immediate halt with the intrusion to the soundless milieu. More than a few moments passed before the man turned to face him once again, taking up a more casual pose by resting an arm on top of his bent knee.

"I must say, words cannot begin to describe just how impressed I am with your conviction, Father. I never expected to be found quite so soon… just maybe the Vatican isn't all talk after all," he exclaimed with a playful grin.

"You… you're the one behind the Prešov massacre?!" Hugue declared with cemented realization, the shock in having actually found the perpetrator still cascading over him in heavy waves.

The assailant giggled, the sound almost the mark of a madman, before releasing a heavy sigh. "My, my… you certainly continue to impress, don't you?"

"State your name!" the priest demanded through grit teeth, desperately trying to keep his anger in check.

"Who, me?" he asked with feigned confusion, before giggling again. "Adon von Abendroth. But don't go telling anyone now; it's a secret."

The man was deranged, finding humour in a situation that called for none. The insolent display only added to the fire; his rage slowly nearing an insurmountable crux as he started to move again, his green eyes narrowed on the devilish fiend.

"Oh no, you seem upset," Adon chided teasingly before lowering himself, with great poise, from the altar. "But I wouldn't be too rash now, if I were you."

The sudden change in tone that accompanied the warning didn't go unnoticed by the priest. On guard, he slowly brought forward the metal staff, preparing himself for any attack as he continued to head forward. None came. Instead, his adversary made his way behind the altar, only to bend down as if to retrieve something.

Hugue's breath instantly caught in his throat, his advance cut short as his eyes fell on the bloodied body being held up for him to see. He pulled back his hood, long blonde locks falling over the left-side of his face as he did, in an attempt to get a better view. It was only then that it occurred to him that he'd been drawn to the old church by someone's distressed cries, and that he was suddenly staring at the source of those screams.

"You wouldn't want her to go through anymore than what she already has," he stated with sadistic glee after having moved to the front of the altar once again.

The girl in his grasp couldn't have been any older than sixteen. A torn white gown, stained by what could only have been her own blood, clung to her wounded being. She was visibly trembling, and if she weren't being held, he was certain her legs would have collapsed right under her. Auburn hair clung to her wet face, hiding her tear filled eyes. Numerous gashes and wounds covered her fair skin, many of them newly made and bleeding.

He had seen much in his time, but such vile barbarities always managed to throw him amidst a raging storm of dysphoria. The current display of raw cruelty toyed earnestly with his sanity, as a new breed of anger and hate began to course, like wildfire, through every fibre of his being. His eyes left her, and fell heavily on her tormentor.

"Such a good girl; keeping quiet while the adults talked," he softly said, pulling away the hair from her face. "But of course, I never expected anything less after I mentioned I'd cut out her tongue if I so much as heard her breathe," he added, closing his eyes in carnal bliss as he moved his lips at a whisker's length across her cheek.

A hand began to move up her waist, which only added to her evident discomfort. The sentiment was made clear by the expression on her face, and the fear laced whimper that followed Adon's unwanted attention. It was the first he'd heard from her; that pain ridden plea that easily mirrored the soundless cry for help blazing in the depths of her dark eyes. It was more than he could take. Jaw tightened in a grimace, his fingers wrapped around the handle of the concealed blade in his metal staff.

"Let the girl go!"

"Hmm?" he crooned, all but ignoring his existence as the hand on the girl's waist moved up and around her breast.

Her tears had practically become streams at that point, her breathing laboured against the chokes and sobs she could no longer stifle. The fiend's smile only grew as he brushed his lips against her ear, notably pleased with the girl's response. Hugue on the other hand could no longer bear the sight of his hands on her.

"I said let her go, you deranged craven!" he shouted, releasing his blade from its metallic sheath.

Adon instantly turned to face him, disbelief and fury etched across his features. "Cr-Craven?!" he screeched, eyes wide with murderous vehemence.

But the incredulous stare vanished almost instantly, replaced by a veil of rigid clarity. The fiend looked coldly composed, sane even, and it was frightening and disturbing all at once. The priest never would have expected to see a sincere expression on the man's face, and as he currently stood, Adon von Abendroth was far more perilous than before. And like a prophecy turn true, so too were Hugue's reservations as he gazed at the pointed end of a long bloody sword sticking out of the girl's abdomen.

She appeared just as shocked as he, failing to register the situation or any initial pain, her mouth instead agape and eyes wide, trained on him. A moment later, anguish rang true throughout the hallowed walls of the old cathedral. As the sword was retracted she collapsed, her hand pressing against the bleeding wound. Her screams were deafening, pain ridden and frantic, and there was little more he could do than watch on as a growing pool of blood appeared beneath her broken form, and as streams of tears flowed relentlessly down a tormented face.

Without a second thought he dashed towards her and assessed the damage. His worst fears were confirmed as he stared down at the dark blood tinting his pale fingertips; she'd been stabbed in the spleen. She didn't have long to live, and whatever time she had would be coupled by a merciless chorus of excruciating pain.

A flick of a sword in his peripheral vision caused Hugue to slowly turn his gaze onto the other man – _no_, he was no man – staring down at them with a glint of callous amusement in his ebony eyes. The daunting smile had returned; his expression reminiscent of some perfidious demon. And Hugue, beyond the throes of horror, hate and rage, met those soulless eyes, voicing the question suddenly plaguing the conceptual depths of his mind.

"Why?!"

The fiend tilted his head, the heated tone behind the priest's words mildly intriguing him. "Why?" he reiterated over the girl's agonizing wails, before delivering his reply. "Why not?"

Hugue was taken aback by the response, his mind whirling with incredulity and revulsion. As he attempted to comprehend how it was possible for _anyone_ to be so indifferent and cold, the girl in his arms – having reached the peak of human endurance – tightly grasped his hand. He looked down at her, noting the sudden absence of screams, as well as the newfound stillness taking over her features.

His eyes widened, unprepared for what was coming next despite knowing the inevitability of the situation. He took her into his hold in a vain, discomfited attempt to comfort her. His gaze wandered, from the scarlet liquid trickling down her chin, to her eyes holding him captive and radiating a silent plea; a final wish. And then, there was nothing; her eyes lost all light, her trembling ceased, and her breathing stilled.

He looked down upon the motionless, damaged form; a symbolic victim of all that was unjust and cruel in an aberrant world. She had been too young, her life coldly stolen from her credulous grasp. She would never have the chance to experience the world and its fruitful joys, and he couldn't help but feel largely responsible. After all, it had been his foolish provocation that had led to her painful demise.

Bringing a hand to her sallow face, he closed her eyelids, putting her dejected eyes to rest. His thoughts were a jumbled mess as he softly put to lay the poor maiden's corpse, with a slight caress upon her cheek as a final placating feat.

With a deep breath he stood, sword ready in hand, as he looked towards his devilish foe. The image of her final, desperate gaze burned deep in his psyche, her wordless prayer beckoning reprisal clear as day. He would not deny her. He would avenge not only her, but all who had been brought ruin via the demon's callous hands. It was the least he could do to bring their souls to peace.

"How," Hugue began, his deep voice low and incensed, "How can you be so indifferent?!"

Adon's smile did not falter, if anything it grew as he brought the scarlet rose before his nose once more.

"Is my apathy really so shocking?" he asked bemusedly, the answer apparent, before continuing. "Then let me begin by asking you this: what is the point of life? It has a beginning. It has an end. But has it a purpose? Given what we know as definitive, at its most basic sense, the meaning of life is that it ends _(3)_. _That_ is its only absolute truth, pre-ordained before all else. Take another look, and you will see a nightmarish reality filled with miseries, perils, horrors, disappointments, defeats, humiliations, and despairs. _That_ is life, the heaviest curse devisable by divine ingenuity _(4)_. Why then cry when it's taken away? Why care? Death, if anything, is solace. Death is kind relief from a treacherous world that teases naïve simpletons with false allusions of happiness, pleasures, joys and delights. I severed any and all ties to such pitiable notions the girl may have had, only to open her eyes to the painful realities, the moment I butchered her parents and ravaged her innocence. One would say that by killing her, I was doing her an enormous favour."

Little to no time had elapsed from when Adon had finished speaking to when Hugue lunged forth, blinded by odious emotions a man of the cloth should know nothing of. Adon, however, was not off guard. Before the enraged priest could land a blow he'd practically vanished from sight, reappearing several meters away, composed as ever before. Hugue grit his teeth, surprised on some level by the man's speed.

"Do you know why this sword has no guard?" he asked conversationally, holding the weapon up for him to see. "I never defend. I will immobilize you with one blow."

"I too, was taught to do as much," Hugue answered tightly, bringing his own weapon to a ready stance.

His opponent grinned, an evident shimmer of fervour glazing his eyes. "I'm utterly thrilled to hear that. …Shall we dance?"

And with that, Hugue lunged forward once again, his mind busily processing variables as he formulated a strategy to defeat his foe. The blur of long, dual black coats consumed his field of vision as the fiend avoided his attack once again. At the same time, alarm bells began to sound deep in his mind as an intricate sensation demanding caution vexed his entire being. The slightest movement in his peripheral vision was the only warning he received as Adon brought his own sword down. His quick reflexes did not fail him as he moved aside just in time. At the same moment he brought his weapon across, certain it would catch his opponent across the chest. To his displeasure, however, he missed by a mere whisker's length.

Turning his gaze to the right he saw the man standing tall atop the altar, a menacing cloak of darkness almost enveloping him and a maniac smile gracing his features.

"You are rather quick," he stated before his eyes turned a darker shade, tinged by what he figured to be ridicule. "But not quick enough."

Much like a catalyst, his words suddenly triggered a stinging sensation across his upper left arm. The stinging soon gave way to pain as he felt the warm trickling of his own blood creeping down the limb. The sword had met its mark after all. He looked down in unpleasant surprise at the gash, studying it for a moment as a chorus of giggling broke out. He turned his attention back onto the fiend, laughing away like a man possessed; the callous display further sparking his ire.

The _demon _was cold, vile and above all else, mad. He had killed and tormented more people than Hugue cared to imagine, and it was his duty to see him pay for his crimes. He had to defeat him. He _would_ defeat him! A slight scratch was not going to impede him. He would deliver divine vengeance, and fulfil his silent promise to that unfortunate maiden. And with that thought in mind, his trusty blade at hand, he willed his legs forward at a fervid pace.

The fiend jumped down to meet him, thrilled over the prospect of an even heated battle. And so it began, that deadly dance, with the swing of swords, deft evasion, a chorus of twists and turns as each of the men attempted to slay the other. Hugue wasted little energy, time, and movement whilst matching his opponent strike for strike, waiting patiently for an opening that would end the battle and assure him victory.

Finally it came, like a blessing from the heavens above, as his opponent dived forward, leaving his left unprotected. Hugue wasted little time as he brought his blade around, intent on cutting him across the stomach. There was however no measuring his disbelief when the man turned, narrowly avoiding the tip of his sword. He'd been too… slow?!

It then occurred to him that it had been a ruse, cleverly devised by his foe and he, determined to end the joust, had blindly walked right into it. He knew what was coming next. He would have moved, would have defended, but he'd already lost too much time, and against time, his skills were obsolete.

He felt the cold metal slice down the length of his back, splitting cloth and flesh with absolute ease. He bit back a yelp and instead turned around, reluctant to fall back or concede. He swung his sword, the strike marred by a splinter of desperation, in a final effort to bring that decadent monster to his knees. But his opponent was skilled, more so than he'd previously anticipated. Dismissing and underestimating his accomplishments in prior battles – no, '_slaughters_' was more appropriate – was going to prove a grievous error.

His strike fell short, his opponent having anticipated it, using the priest's impetuosity to his advantage. Then, the demon's sword came down, in a graceful arc, and cut cleanly through his left arm. The roar of pain was unavoidable, reverberating off the stone walls as the limb fell to the floor, a trail of blood following it closely. A hard hit to the blonde man's chest followed, launching him into the air before his back collided heavily with the stone altar behind him.

Hugue was overwhelmed as he tried to conjure a thought; overwhelmed by shock, despair and agony. His back stung and ached, his left arm bled with no end in sight, ridden by unbearable pain. But more agonizing than the physical throbbing, more so than the knowledge of his defeat and impending doom; was the memory sparked by his current injury. The memory of that terrible, fateful day which saw his home attacked by vampires, his entire family butchered before his eyes save his younger sister, swallowed in darkness ever since, and he, the young heir left for dead, both arms severed, as a stigma, from his being.

He bit down hard at the memory, his breathing laboured as sweat trickled down his pale face, blonde hair clinging to his forehead. He stared hardly at the… the _thing_ walking towards him, all smiles and cruel amusement; a pillar of certain death. He couldn't believe it would all end like this, not when he still had so much to do. But he had come to accept the fact that his days wound end in such a way, having lived his life in accordance to a simple rule, a quaint philosophy; that those who live by the sword, die by the sword _(5)_. Nevertheless, he hadn't expected his demise to come quite so soon and, ironically enough, within the house of the Lord.

His tormentor kneeled down close to him, studying him critically like some mad scientist would a newfound specimen before deciding on the nature of the experiments that could be performed upon it. Hugue watched him through heavy lids, his raspy breaths hardening as he waited for the inevitable.

"I'm disappointed," the man crooned, caressing the priest's cheek with his rose, "I expected much more from one of the Vatican's elites. Not only did you fail to prevent another impending slaughter, you couldn't even save one helpless little girl… let alone yourself."

"You… filthy vampire!" Hugue spat out through grit teeth, his brow furrowing in anger.

Adon's smile instantly dropped. That cold, composed look had returned to his face before his features morphed into a tell-tale sign of furious annoyance. Before Hugue could even blink the man's sword had been released from its sheath and plunged deep into his right shoulder. The priest shrieked in pain as its tip embedded itself right into the altar at his back.

"Watch your mouth priest!" the man snarled, twisting the sword slightly which caused him to yelp. "_I'm_ no vampire!"

The fiend twisted the blade once again to emphasise his point, earning another shriek from the blonde man as he pressed his head hard against the stone behind him, eyes drawn tightly shut. He didn't think he could endure anymore pain, but knowing anything of the man crouching over him, he'd ensure his death was as slow and agonizing as humanly possible. The startling news that he wasn't even a vampire did little to quell that belief; the man was what he was: a monster.

"You're probably wondering then why I'm doing all this, if I'm not a _vampire_," he began, his voice fluid and languid once again.

"As I said, life is filled with the worst of miseries, pains, horrors, disappointments and despairs. And yet, knowing this, people continue to cling onto the false promises of joys, pleasures and happiness. They _strive_ for such sentiments, search their entire lives for but a taste of them; if only to succeed in giving meaning and purpose to their life, and make the maladies bearable. I, too, am no exception. But you see, what brings _me_ great joy and pleasure is the sight of pain and despair in _others_. It's the look in their eyes… so full of fear, so utterly destroyed in the moments before their demise. Seeing those walls of sanity and hope crumble like old, worn bricks from around their minds and hearts… oh what ecstasy!" he exclaimed, pausing for a moment before continuing. "You may think I'm brutal and mad, but really, who are _we_ to deny our nature? They made me this way… I _won't_ disappoint them."

Hugue didn't miss the slight abhorrence making its way into Adon's words during that final sentence. For a moment he wondered who he'd meant by '_they_', but the thought slowly slipped away as the overwhelming pain coursing within him, as well as the substantial blood loss, began to throw him in and out the scopes of awareness.

"But you know, I'm not entirely without self-control. You will be the… fourth being to which I have allowed to live on in this cruel, insidious world and denied kind gracious death. Lucky you!"

Having said that he moved in slightly, bringing his mouth close to the blonde's ear, and whispered. "So run back, like the good little dog you are, to your superior in Rome, and tell her that _Contra Mundi_ is on the move."

And with that, the sword from his shoulder was finally removed; the demon rising slightly as he sheathed the blade. Whether he should have been counting his blessings, thanking God, or beating himself senseless for his own imprudence and overconfidence, Hugue didn't know.

With his limit finally reached, the billowing retreat of the fiend's long black coats was the last thing he saw, his words for the Cardinal the last of his thoughts, before his heavy lids fell, his damaged being and tenuous mind at last thrown into the dark oblivion of unconsciousness.

* * *

It had been the most horrendous, gruesome and terrifying scene Klatovy's authorities had ever seen. A call had come in late in the night regarding a disturbance taking place in the west end of town, and despite the inspector's evident cynicism, he'd woken a couple of men from their peaceful slumbers and headed out. His scepticism wasn't unfounded; nothing ever happened in Klatovy. _Ever_. Their small force was a testament to that fact.

Needless to say when they'd reached the main street, their doubts had begun, little by little, to break away. First there was the stench; pungent and rotting. It became stronger the further they walked, and inhaling air a chore rather than a necessity. And then they'd seen the blood flowing down the road, a vile stream seeping across the land, gleaming almost tauntingly in the pale moonlight.

They'd followed the crimson path, wondering what in Heaven and Hell had happened in their town, continually passing scattered corpses and limbs which only grew in number. It had been an uncanny and petrifying sight, leaving their minds and the world around them entrapped in a raging current of horror and disbelief. One of the men had emptied his stomach's contents onto the path, the other stumbled behind the inspector, in the process of passing out. It was overwhelming, that much was clear, but they moved along much like a group of children in a carnival's haunted house, terrified, yet perversely curious at the same time.

The bloody trail ended at the end of the road with the steps to the church. Avoiding the torn carcasses they slowly made their way toward it, fearing just what was waiting for them within.

Pushing open the doors, the men stumbled in, the sight of a travelling priest's corpse at the end of the nave filling their line of sight. They dashed towards his blood stained body, assessing his injuries – fatal in their own right – as one of the men checked for a pulse. To their surprise, he was still alive.

As one of his subordinates contacted the paramedics, the inspector tried to comprehend what kind of a man could massacre people in such brutal manner, and attack a priest, in the house of God no less! As his mind worked around the thought, he felt a drop of liquid land on his forehead. He brushed at it before looking down at his fingers, only to notice they were stained red.

Alarmed he slowly looked up, and the sight that welcomed him almost made him lurch. Gulping down the bile rushing up his throat, he stared in stunned apprehension at the girl swaying back and forth in midair, hanging from the ceiling courtesy of a rope around her neck. With her stomach slashed, entrails lay hanging from her gaunt body, dripping blood onto the floor with every one of the body's swings. A full red rose, unmistakably her killer's idea of a sick joke, lay embedded in her womb in a display of vile despoliation, tainted in liquid crimson.

Noticing his frozen state, his subordinates turned to look at him before following his gaze upward. Falling under a trance, they looked on in horror at the barbarous scene, any and all words dying on their lips.

"Father in Heaven…," one of them finally whispered before the sound of approaching sirens shattered the soundless ambience.

* * *

_(1) This is the first of the 'Thirty-Six Stratagems of Ancient China', a collection tactical proverbs. Falling under the first chapter of winning stratagems, this method acts to take advantage of the human weakness in that people become unaware of common everyday activities, or events that keep repeating themselves._ _When this happens, it is considered the best moment to carry out one's true objective._

_(2) A variant quote from 'Paradise Lost' (1674) by John Milton;_  
"_Night would invade, but there the neighbouring moon  
(So call that opposite fair star) her aid  
Timely interposes, and her monthly round  
Still ending, still renewing, through mid heav'n,  
With borrowed light her countenance triform  
Hence fills and empties to enlighten th' earth,__  
And in her pale dominion checks the night."  
- Book III, 726-732_

_(3) A quote attributed to Franz Kafka;  
"The meaning of life is that it ends."_

_(4) __Quoted from "Letter X", in 'Letters from the Earth' (1909) by Mark Twain._

_(5)__ A metaphorical expression with its origins in the Book of Matthew;_  
"_Then said Jesus unto him, Put up again thy sword into his place: for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword."__  
- Matthew 26:52  
This proverb is also regularly used by Hugue throughout the Trinity Blood novels. _


	4. Part IV

Author's Note: I know, it's been ages, and I feel really bad about that. Uni has been demanding this year, and thankfully my last exam is fast approaching. Also, this chapter is fairly long (hopefully _that_ makes up for the long wait), and was a bit of a challenge to write as it deals with a few of the characters' emotional dilemmas, so I would really love to hear your opinions on those.

Just a few things I'd like to mention. Firstly, I'll be putting tabs up to the status of this fic on my profile, so please check there for updates. Also, in case you haven't noticed, I changed my user name XD.

Secondly, I went back and changed the surname of my OC from Schwartz to Abendroth. I figured only _after_ I uploaded it that Schwartz was a tad _too_ generic, so I apologise for that.

Thirdly, there are a couple of mature references towards the end. Nothing too explicit at all (I don't think), but I'm just playing it safe by letting you all know in advance.

And finally, thank you to Lex, Crimson Melancholy and wanderingassassin for your feedback. Needless to say I was surprised logging in after so long to see all the changes made here, and then I realised that we can reply to reviews. So I'll be making a habit of doing that from this point on, and thanking all of you personally.

I'll also be asking several questions at the end of the chapter to get an idea of where your heads are at concerning several things, so if you could consider answering them, it would help me immensely, and may also contribute to faster updates. Cheers!

* * *

Part IV

"_Some of us think holding on makes us strong; but sometimes it is letting go."_  
– _Hermann Hesse_

"So, it was the Rosencreutz all along…."

Caterina sighed, her demeanour a far cry from her customary conduct of control and impenetrability. Dubbed 'The Woman of Steel', a portrait of perfect calm and strength in the public eye, the fearless Cardinal was never one to allow her emotions to get the better of her. Though unlike cold, hard metal, living creatures of bone and flesh had proven far more malleable… susceptible. The title's claim of firm will and resolve was not, much to her dismay, all-encompassing. Her habitually hard expression had morphed into something befitting an old woman at the end of her road; a lifetime of hardships and despairs hanging over her head as a final, mocking memento.

Drained, both physically and emotionally, the lady put down her cup of tea as she listened to the words of her trusted companions. They, closest and most trusted above all others, were among the minor few privy to seeing her in such a nonsensical moment of weakness.

"Whilst, as in the past, no physical evidence to support that supposition has been found, Sword Dancer's account," Sister Kate relayed, her voice lowering suddenly, "…appears to confirm it."

Caterina's gaze hardened as she recalled her earlier encounter with the priest; his words brushing against her thoughts with hardened ferocity as they unlocked the merciless shadows buried deep within the recesses of her mind. No sooner had the cardinals' meeting regarding Prešov and Klatovy come to a close than news of Hugue's arrival and immediate hospitalisation, as well as consequent emergency surgery, reached her ears.

At the time she'd been frustrated with the decision reached at the conference. Whilst the other department heads, along with her brother Francesco, had accepted, albeit reluctantly, the Inquisition's findings that the attacks had not been carried out by vampires, Abel's conclusion alternatively, which placed one lone individual as the assailant, had been quickly dismissed as baseless quackery. Instead, the perpetrators were declared to be Bohemian rebel insurgents –remnant heretics of the civil war that had plagued the land two years prior – hell-bent on destabilizing the region, despite the absence of any proof to support the claim.

That would be the official announcement, at any rate. Come tomorrow morning, the Vatican Public Affairs office would see to it that every paper relayed the conjured account, as well as a minimised count of the number of Inquisitorial guards killed in the confrontation. Appearances were, after all, a _very_ important affair. The Vatican was deemed the most powerful and competent of human institutions; any allusions to the contrary could not, and _would_ not, be permitted.

With that, the matter had been closed indefinitely, leaving a rather foul taste in the back of her mouth. Disgruntled with her colleagues' ignorant recklessness, Caterina had stormed out of the meeting troubled and harbouring a growing headache. It was then, during a moment of absolute exasperation that was becoming all too common, that an aide had approached her with news regarding one of her agents. Wasting little time, she'd promptly made her way to the infirmary, just in time to see the blonde priest being wheeled in.

In all honesty, she'd been stunned by the sight of him; frail, static, bloody, paler than usual… a far cry from the strong, determined individual she'd always known him to be. And then it occurred to her that this had been the first time she'd seen him in such a state; the first time he'd been defeated so disastrously and crushed to a point of death.

The doctor's words, seemingly distant and low-spoken as she heard them, had still played over in her mind as she looked down at the man,

'He's lucky to be alive.'

_Lucky to be alive_…. Indeed, the sight of his broken being and sickly pallor had told her better than any words that he'd been through agonizing, merciless torments akin to the trials of Hell itself. And then her gaze had gone lower, leaving the harrow mars plaguing his features and instead falling on his left arm, or the lack thereof.

It was then that she came to realise just how much the man had actually suffered, being handed such depraved punishment which served to invoke old wounds far more excruciating than any of his current physical pain. She'd pitied him, felt for him and his anguish, wondering absently in-between her own inkling of guilt – she was, after all, responsible for him – just what kind of nefarious being had dealt such damage to one of her better agents. To a man who had risen, again and again, above every one of fate's arduously brutal trials since that nightmarish episode of his past; a protracted lesson dealt via the harshest of means… a cold and ruthless testament to the barbarities of life no child should ever have to experience.

To a man who'd sworn divine vengeance by tainting his own hands with the fatal scarlet of blood; innocence robbed eternally from his sombre grasp, replaced instead by a harsh, resolute blade forged from cold hard steel, and a promise of bitter justice. There wasn't a single time he'd fallen to the point of no return; he'd always recover and destroy his adversary. Not once had he fallen… until now.

What vile creature had defeated him so? Just what were they up against? The questions had continued to bombard her mind, demanding answers she did not have. She'd felt her frustration rise again, fuelled by the current despondency of the situation and her own limitations.

"Cardinal…."

The cracked, barely audible whisper had quickly brought the lady out of her brief lapse, her attention once again on the priest. His eyes were narrowly open, and yet they still held her gaze as she eagerly awaited his next words.

"_Contra Mundi_… is on… the move," he'd managed before his lids closed once again, head slumping off to the side in semblance of its former inanimate state.

She'd ceased all movement then, watching blankly as he was wheeled off amidst the impatient alarm of the doctors and nurses. For a long time she'd just stood there thinking; assessing what she'd heard and the implications behind those words. And then, suddenly, all of it fell into place, and she had found herself in a trounced state of trepidation and boundless rage; her own dark past veering its ugly head. The consequent torrent of sundry emotions had remained even with the slow ascent to her office, gnawing at her sanity as she continued to deliberate her nemesis' current plan....

"How is Hugue?" she asked quietly.

"There were no complications during surgery, and a new prosthesis has been successfully attached. His remaining injuries also won't take too long to heal. He's in recovery as we speak."

The blonde cardinal nodded in response, her shoulders slumping further as another sigh escaped her lips. The sister's words granted her a moment of gratifying relief, but the preponderance of what had occurred still weighed down upon her.

"Caterina…," pulling her out of her deliberation was a soft, empathetic, male voice, followed closely by a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "You mustn't allow these events to deject you."

"I know," she said simply, "though I can't help but feel an innate irritation when I think over the cardinals' resolution to this matter. Any prior likelihood for repairing relations with the locals has all but dissipated now. Not only did the Inquisition's presence within their borders elicit the Prešov massacre, but now _we've_ essentially turned the blame back onto the victims."

Her features grew hard as she evaluated just how grave the pronouncement's fallout would be, and was again frustrated by her inability to do anything.

"Bohemian ultra-nationalists… of all the ridiculous things…!" she managed through grit teeth, a fist forming as her earlier melancholy shifted quickly into anther proverbial state of ire.

The hand atop her shoulder generously afforded her a soft squeeze for all her incessant reservations; turning the tide on her volatile demeanour with a compassionate gesture of reassurance that wordlessly told her she was not alone. That she had many friends and allies to support her through any tribulation. She exhaled deeply, allowing her tense being to surrender to forbidden respite that was normally denied during such sombre times. She considered then how this was bearing upon the rest of them, particularly by the man close at her side.

"I should apologise for the tactless resolution decided upon by the––"

A short, quiet laugh – pleasant, yet marred by an infinite sadness – ended her contrition prematurely. "There is no need for that. I've come to realise all too well as of late, that an overwhelming majority of the Vatican's current administration lack much in the way of any true reasoning."

Václav Havel, one of her closest friends for well over ten years, spoke a regrettable truth that she too had considered many times during her contemplative moments alone. The Vatican had been heading towards an arbitrarily indifferent position for a long time now; a fraught attempt at maintaining its dominant position amongst the human states. However, the price for such authority was finally showing its derisive teeth, playing upon the implacable thirst for power exhibited by God's 'faithful' servants with tenuous results. Much like the slow, yet timed descent of a thousand granules of sand encased within shapely glass, so too was the deliberate declivity of trust, respect and, above all, patience, from the people.

Václav knew this all too well. He had seen it, all throughout his long service to the Church dating back to his earlier days in the Inquisition; the decline of support and allegiance against the unhindered rise of frustration, doubt and resentment. The world was embarking upon a new era… a new system, one the Vatican was reluctant to embrace. Desperation marked their survival as they clung for dear life onto the last strands of dominion; remnants of another time and a different world. But where desperation stalked, inanity closely followed. Truly, the handling of matters following the events in his homeland more than proved that unfortunate fact.

"I only pray that the remaining Bohemian populace will feel the same way as you," Caterina sighed with little conviction.

"That is all we can do during such times; pray," Václav responded solemnly as a brooding silence engulfed the room.

Whilst the impending political fallout with the region fed to her growing concerns, what troubled the cardinal most was the Rosencreutz Orden's involvement. The number of times the Order was mentioned – whether during a final frantic admission or via a fleeting whisper – or when one of its members accorded a brief appearance amidst escalating chaos and destruction brought forth by their own bloodied hands, had been becoming ever more frequent.

It had begun with the Fleurs du Mal's agent, Count Alfred of Meinz, hijacking the _Tristan_ several odd months ago; his last words opening the floodgates to Hell itself. After ten years of keeping to the shadows of anonymity, buried in the throes of darkness and dread that surfaced only within the bloodcurdling nightmares of those who had come face to face with evil itself, the 'World's Enemy' had at long last made his move. And like a row of lined dominoes, erected and played upon a voracious stage made to his liking, torment had quickly fallen upon the innocent, and they, weak against his merciless onslaught, had been brought to their knees… one by one.

Venice had followed the midair tragedy. Then István. Then the latest victims: Prešov along with Klatovy. And at every single occasion, the Orden had mockingly receded behind their vile cloak of obscurity; the bitter promise of return permeating the air like a rotting carcass. The sick game had been set, the challenge made, and only time could tell who would fall next.

The Vatican incessantly pleaded blind ignorance, refusing to acknowledge the Orden's involvement in the many acts of terror, and more often than not its very existence. Persecution had long avoided the monstrous sinner at the crown of it all, for how could justice be dealt upon a being who didn't even exist? And so the World's Enemy had continuously escaped notice, remaining to many an urban myth of old that served to only frighten little children who dared to ask,

'Who? Who is _Contra Mundi_?'

But Cardinal Caterina Sforza was no blind fool. She had seen the threat posed to this world and to humanity itself very early in life. That contentious knowledge had cost her dearly, and she'd paid with those dearest to her; her family. It would have been her life too, weren't it for her own angelic saviour. She had survived, armed with invaluable knowledge and raw recollections that fuelled the rage and abhorrence residing deep within the darkest regions of her soul.

The rigorous emotions made her stronger, allowed her to maintain this cold, inexorable persona as the Woman of Steel. She privately held onto them with an almost deathlike grip, afraid of losing the iron resolve that allowed her to continuously fight. A lesser woman would have long since given up now. But true to their word, anger and hate were indeed powerful weapons in this deadly game. And she would use them well.

"Rosencreutz… what are they planning? What is _he_ really after…?" she wondered aloud.

Kate and Václav looked to each other from their respective positions on either side of the dark oak desk, shifting slightly under the weight of their Lady's query. Caterina paid little heed; she hadn't been expecting an answer. How could they know? How could _anyone_ know what malevolent plot was being devised by their sinister foe, concealed from both light and sight?

All they could do was wait; wait and see what would unfold in helpless discontentment until the truth of the Orden's existence was at long last revealed to the world. It was only a matter of time, and until that fateful day, she would remain strong and meet their challenge whenever and wherever it came.

"_Veritum dies aperit (1)_," she whispered softly, as another sip of Kate's pleasant tea graced her palate.

Its taste was bitter.

* * *

Frantic were the strides of one Sister Noélle Bor as she hurriedly made her way to the Vatican's main infirmary. Only minutes had passed since the news had reached her, during one of her silent, secluded moments of consecrated prayer.

A nun's duty to the Lord naturally involved long moments spent within His church in a show of reverence and humility, though Noélle's ever-frequent visits largely took on a more beseeching tone. Her prayers… all her prayers, were neither for the continued glory of Rome nor herself, but for one man and one man alone.

Abel Nightroad was her all. From the moment she'd first laid eyes on him; an otherworldly apparition of sorts, all smiles and earnest kindness, she'd known. From the hitch in her breath, the flutter at the pit of her stomach, the heat extending throughout every inch of her already titillating being, the restive gnawing deep within her chest… all of it had mounted to reveal to her an inexplicable and exhilarating truth; a truth so obvious her heart could only serve to confirm rather than deny. She cared for one Abel Nightroad; she cared dearly for him. So much so that any reasonable person would go so far as to say she _loved_ him.

Her insistent concerns for the silver-haired priest, courtesy of her enamoured sentiments, could be described as being borderline on obsession. And yet, there was no helping or denying the asphyxiating heartache… the maddening anxiety she felt every time he went out on assignment. Left feeling powerless and forlorn, there was little more she could do during his moments away but pray, and implore the heavenly Lord above to keep him safe from any and all harm until the moment he returned; wherein all her worries would at long last be put to rest.

But there was only little relief, for no sooner would he return, would he be sent out once again. It was a continual spiral – one mission after the other; another time he'd have to put his life out on the line, and the pattern of fear and unease on her end would begin anew. The Duchess of Milan never seemed to give him a moment's peace; something she secretly and involuntarily resented her for.

Three years had come to pass since she'd joined the AX as an idealistic, dedicated member of the Church, eager to lend her services – however miniscule they may have been conceived – to her Lord and, incidentally, the lady cardinal herself. She'd admired Caterina greatly. The woman was a portrait of fierce will and firm resolve… never one to admit defeat; a fighter to the end. She was a perfect leader, inspiring strength and confidence in her subordinates – a true dealer in hope _(2)_ – and not unlike the many greats of the ancient world, Pharaohs, Caesars and Kaisers alike, instigate complete and incontestable loyalty from all who rightfully served under her. And so Noélle, like the rest of her colleagues, had in joining the ranks of the _Arcanum cella ex dono dei_ submitted herself fully to the will, and whims, of its subsequent founder and overseer.

Such infallible commitment, naturally, rested on the premise that one's chieftain remain true and continually retain a certain measure of sincerity. Caterina had always been an aggressive advocate of all that was considered holy and just; a proponent of peace and a voice of reason scarcely found amongst the senior ecclesiastical officials. However, the sister's empathic abilities allowed her a glimpse of the woman beneath the fortified exterior, and Noélle could do little more than stand back and watch as a raging inferno, slowly but surely, ravaged at the lady's psyche and soul with every passing day.

These dark sentiments weren't a random manifestation; they had always been there, locked away. That was, until several months ago. Noélle wasn't all too sure what had triggered the change, but she had seen as well as felt it happen within her superior. Since that day forth; exhaustion, anxiety, and something akin to odious rage had all but dominated her emotions. Such a trend was a dangerous sign to behold, as irrationality and impatience – the cause of many a leader's demise – often lurked not too far behind. And, ultimately, it would be the AX who would have the cumbersome task of fulfilling their Lady's soon to be desperate and unreasonable demands, and no agent more so than one Father Nightroad.

Poor Abel.... How her heart wept for him!

To those who didn't know any better, the silver-haired man was picture-perfect; faultless in almost every evocative way. This, of course, could not be farther from the truth. He shielded his sentiments well; donning a well-made mask of oblivious joy and carefree grace, fooling nearly all he came to pass. However, he too was plagued by inner demons. The darkness and pain that emanated from him were deep, and blacker than the farthest reaches of empty space.

She'd spent countless moments thinking over that closely guarded secret of his in a relentless attempt to unearth what ailed him, with little success. All she could say, with absolute certainty, was that his sorrows must have stemmed from something hauntingly shattering for his scars to run so deep. And such a reality pained her.

It almost made sense that he would bury himself in dangerous missions; taking on the impossible in order to perhaps forget, even for a limited space of time, his harrowing internal turmoil. Was it right, then, for Caterina to take advantage of this weakness... even if the man in question allowed her to?

The question churned about in her mind, and she came to the conclusion that she could not be all too forgiving towards the decisions of her superior. She did not for a second doubt Abel's abilities, but to be constantly exploited, time and time again with almost little regard... to be handed the most demanding and life-threatening of assignments was beyond any measure of benevolent consideration. Regardless of how competent he was, fortune was an all too fickle and merciless master of time, and so would come the day were his luck would run out. A day where he would tragically lie across the border of life and death, his body and spirit hellishly broken and ravaged by suffocating pain. _Such _was the tale the present day told.

Her pace practically doubled in intensity as she passed various churchmen standing in the way of her destination, their presence practically nonexistent in the face of her escalating hysteria. She recalled what she'd heard earlier with clouded trepidation; the AX agent dispatched to deal with the latest Bohemian crisis had returned, not in one piece, but severely wounded and desperately clinging onto dear life itself. To her knowledge, no one else had been sent to investigate the bloodbath; Abel had been the only one to walk out of Caterina's office that day. That could only mean....

She tried telling herself that it wasn't him... that it wasn't Abel. It couldn't possibly be him! She swallowed her tears, but there was little she could do to still the rampant frenzy of her heart. Likewise, her mind was in tatters as a storm of discord, tinged by hints of madness, reigned havoc upon each and every conscious thought.

'_It wasn't him.'_

'_It wasn't him!'_

'_It wasn't Abel!'_

'_It couldn't be....'_

She never had the chance to finish that train of thought. In all her incessant worrying, she'd failed to notice the figure that had unexpectedly appeared right before her. The result was a rather heavy, yet embarrassingly unavoidable, collision.

'_Stupid blind fool!'_ she thought absently, disinclined to accept the incident as being entirely her fault.

Staggering momentarily, she hastily found her footing before turning her eyes gallingly onto the other party. Her frustration, however, was short lived. Blinking furiously, she could have sworn she stopped breathing as she stared, dumbfounded, into two affable pools of crystal blue.

"Sister Noélle," the man's warm voice greeted pleasantly.

"Abel!"

Before she knew it, she'd franticly wrapped her arms around his tall form; eagerly embracing him as if she'd never see him again, and for the sake of confirming that he was not a manifestation of her maddening imagination, but real and truly standing there before her. Her hold was like steel as she rested her head against his chest, deeply inhaling the scent that was undeniably him: citrus, honey and a slight hint of copper. She breathed it in greedily, wanting to commit everything about him to memory, including the slightly coarse fabric of his priestly robes lest she never she saw him again; a terrifyingly real possibility. As such, she decided, she could never take any of him for granted ever again.

"Thank Heaven you're alright! I was afraid I'd lost you," she whispered softly against his firm torso, the tone of her voice giving away more about her thoughts and emotions than she ought to have revealed.

This careless slip, as well as realisation of her lingering embrace, slowly brought her out of her elated high. Slowly, unwillingly, she disentangled herself from him; her eyes anywhere but on his face. Though despite any measurable amount of control, her attention quickly shifted back onto the enchanting seraph as music once again graced her ears.

"You needn't worry. I'm here."

Their eyes met in a calm tryst of battling emotions; hers an overflowing indication of heart wrenching devotion that threatened to spill down flustered cheeks in the face of his kind compassion. Captivated, her eyes travelled across flawless contours; from orbs reminiscent of a winter lake, to delicately sculptured curves of enticing lips showcasing a warm, considerate beam as bright as any boasted ray of Helios himself.

Again she'd been ensnared by predictable irrationality in the face of her amorous affections, and once again realisation of her fixation came at a lethargic pace. Thus, in a hasty bid to stifle the awkward atmosphere she felt building itself around them, she resorted to rather forward, exaggerated means.

"Honestly Abel, how could you worry me like that!" she demanded, her tone raised and irritated, as she dealt blow after blow against his torso with clenched fists.

"Eh?!" was the shrieked reply; a welcome indication that she'd managed to distract him from the moments past.

"You should have seen to it that we knew it wasn't you lying there on a hospital bed, instead of taking a casual stroll!" she continued amidst wailing protests of 'Noélle!', and his flailing attempts to avoid, or bring to a cease, her relentless strikes.

There was no stopping the incessantly fluid flow of fists, as she too was attempting to forget; to forgo her insecurities, anxiety and frustration with every frenzied blow. But her dire attempts were for naught. A wave of exhaustion had swept over her, carrying with it the vivid weight of her feelings for the man. It hang heavily over her; mind and heart alike. The blows slowed; the strength behind them all but quenched. She couldn't do it… she couldn't forget, she couldn't hide, and she most certainly couldn't deny. Gone was any propriety; gone were her reservations in allowing him a glimpse of what lay beneath her now crumbling walls. It hadn't taken long; her highly charged, sporadic emotions were beyond any means of control, acting on impulse, not reason.

Her hands came to clench his robes in an iron grip, as she buried her face once again in the folds of his worn cassock. Tears threatened to spill as the gnawing in her chest intensified; breaths heavy and winded as she scarcely registered the sudden shortage of air her lungs were receiving.

"I can't... I can't lose you!" she managed to whisper with utmost sincerity.

Arms wrapped around her, delicately encasing her tense being with promises of warmth and tenderness. She stopped breathing then, eyes wide in shock as time itself seemed to come to a dramatic halt. She couldn't think for the longest of moments, before her mind began buzzing and rapidly analysing this delightfully unexpected turn of events. Could it be? Could he possibly feel the same adoration she felt for him?

Her heart sped at the prospect – thrilled and besieged – a small smile finally playing across her lips as she leaned in closer to his body, relishing the feel of his tender hold. It was almost surreal, evocative of one of her many dreams, but the steady beating of his heart beneath her resting head, the warmth of his breath currently caressing her hair and neck, his unique scent... all were real, too real for any mental manifestation. She was truly lost in it all, blissfully ignorant to the rest of the world... and then, he spoke.

"You're right. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have worried you like that. It was rather insensitive of me, wasn't it?"

"...."

'_...What!?'_

His light-hearted apology, coupled by his bashful laugh, snapped Noélle right out of her potent state of euphoria. Once again her eyes widened, her smile disappearing quicker than a blink of the eye as she registered his hands closing around her upper arms, and the loss of heat as he took a step back, all of a sudden holding her at arm's length. His goofy, lopsided grin was in place, accentuated by a mild tinge of guilt. But, to her dismay, there were no signs of love or ecstasy as she had hoped to see; absolutely nothing that would lead her to believe that he actually shared her feelings for him. She was saddened, confused, and downright irritated. How could he possibly be so blind as to how she felt!?

She reminded herself that despite his usually infallible qualities, Abel could, at times, not only be daft, but a slow, clueless – yet all the while lovable – fool. If he was to ever realise the depths of her affections, she would have to clearly confess them to him.

Concurrently, her mind registered the fact that whilst Abel was not the one deathly injured at that moment in time, it could very well be he damned to suffer in throes next. And if Death were to claim him, God forbid, he would never know the truth, and she'd never know – left only to wonder – what could have been. What could have been had she only chosen to tell him when she'd had the chance. The culmination of such truths served to awaken something deep within, something frightening and exhilarating, all of a sudden compelling her... urging her to open herself to the man standing before her. And so, the decision already made and set in stone, she felt all lingering nerves and reservations wash away, replaced by fortified clarity and hope.

It had to be done. The time had come. Noélle Bor was going to tell one Abel Nightroad _exactly_ how she felt.

"Abel, I… I have something I need to tell you. I-I've struggled with it for a long time now… not knowing whether… whether I should tell you or not, but I feel that I cannot keep it to myself any longer. I…," she began tentatively, staring demurely at his complaisant expression, "…what I mean to say is… I've grown quite fond of you since we met, and ask that you listen to–"

"It was Hugue," he stated suddenly, quietly, interrupting her confession.

She blinked, the rest of her words dying on her lips, and began to slowly register the unexpected change in his facial expression, now sombre and austere. Even his eyes had lost all previous radiance; their joy replaced by painful detachment. Her heart clenched at the current sight of him.

"What?" she whispered perplexedly, still analysing his eyes and face as she absently repeated what he'd said, "…Hugue?"

And then she saw it as well as felt it; his reluctance to hear her out... to be confronted with the knowledge of her affections. For the first time since she'd ran into him, he was making an acute effort to avoid her eyes; his solemn gaze decisively cast off to the side.

But what distressed her more, striking at the very core of all her prior fears and reservations – suddenly resurfacing with unequivocal vengeance – was what she felt radiating from him; sentiments as cold and harrowing as a harsh gust of winter wind. She could almost picture herself standing, alone and despondent, amidst an unrelenting hailstorm reigning havoc in the dead hours of the night; its icy claws biting mercilessly at her frail, frigid being. There was no denying that the silver-haired man had receded back behind his high-built walls... dejected agony and dark solitude the only indicators of his desolation left behind. And she felt every single one of them.

He didn't want this. Nor would he give her the chance to tell him how she truly felt; his timely intervention proof enough of that. Any residual euphoria and hope was summarily brought to a screeching end. And her heart finally broke.

It took several long moments before she remembered to breathe again, her mind in tatters as it struggled to conjure a single thought. She felt empty... she _was_ empty; there was nothing left of the once vibrant Sister but a broken, lifeless shell. _He'd_ destroyed her.

"Ah! Listen to me, darkening the mood like that," he declared suddenly, jovially, with a shaky laugh as he scratched the back of his head, "but you needn't worry, I've heard Hugue will be just fine. He's tough, that one. He'll definitely be back in no time!"

Noélle barely registered his change of tone, or what he was saying for that matter. Everything was a blur; a warped re-enactment of reality played upon some mocking stage before her deathly still form, her role reduced to a clueless spectator. It was more than what she could take. She had to get out!

"I... I'm going to go see Hugue," she whispered absently, emotionlessly, turning around and walking off without so much as a glance in his direction. It hurt too much.

Her relationship with Abel was, at least for the foreseeable future, ruined. She'd imprudently gambled away their friendship, all in the hope that they'd come out of it with something far grander. She'd been a fool.

Slowly making her way down the cobbled path, it occurred to her that there was nothing, _truly_ nothing, left for her. Even remaining with AX seemed like an impossibility; she doubted she could be around, let alone work with Abel, ever again. Escape therefore seemed to be her only option... she had to go.

Though, little did the raven-haired Sister know that the object of her anguish was also experiencing his own bout of torment. Abel sadly watched the back of her retreating form, a part of him, deep down, painfully aware of what he'd done, and how distraught she'd resultantly become. However, that knowledge was overshadowed by his insentient defences, oblivious in their nature, leaving him ignorant to her sorrow.

* * *

Hugue de Watteu awoke from his deep slumber not with a jolt, but in a haze of absolute stupor. He had no bearing on his surroundings as he opened his eyes, blinking lethargically as the day's warm, bright rays filtered through the windows and enveloped the plain white room. Despite the mild disorientation, he had little care to look around beyond what his current line of sight offered; a bare picture of creamy-white ceiling. He felt numb to the core; physically, mentally and emotionally.

Lying there, unmoving, he worked his mind in a bid to conjure memories long set in the distant past; anything that could offer an explanation for his current condition. He knew he was in a medical facility, that much was apparent, yet the cause as to why eluded him. And as he continued to rake his brain – breathing heavily and evenly as prescribed by an old meditation technique learned almost a lifetime ago – it all began, ever so slowly, to come back to him. A floodgate of images and emotions reminding him of that cursed night… of that maniacal beast and his own disastrous loss. With it all, came a stark reminder of the pain he'd endured; currently a dull throbbing across his back and stiff arm.

The recollection of his limb being severed should have brought with it an overwhelming sense of despair and aggravation, but to his mild surprise, he felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. He reasoned with himself that he ought to have reached an emotional crux, and in order to limit any further damage to his already broken psyche, his subconscious had saw fit to harden his overwrought walls. It was a comforting insight; knowing he wouldn't be tormented with the nightmares of that night, however long ago it was, for some time to come.

Unconsciously, his left arm flexed as the grim picture book of memories continued its relentless assault on his already detached mind. He blinked at the sensation, slowly registering the fact that there was, indeed, some inkling of feeling where there otherwise shouldn't have been. Slowly, he lifted the arm, wholly expecting to see nothing beyond the elbow. Instead, he was met with the sight of a complete limb, the pale and smooth addition in complete contrast to the scar-ravaged skin of his upper arm. Turning it over, he studied the appendage with very little thought or care; relief and elation curiously absent as he regarded his mended being.

"You're awake."

His eyes lazily moved towards the source of the warm yet softly sombre voice, finding a familiar face in the corner of the room. Sister Noélle met his gaze and offered a small smile. Picking up the vase of flowers she'd been huddled over, she brought them over to the end table beside his bed, critically observing him as she did.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine," he replied simply, lowering his hand and moving his gaze back onto the bare ceiling.

"I… I'm glad to hear that," she said with utmost sincerity, though even in his current state of untried apathy, Hugue could not miss the infinite melancholy radiating from her in waves, and tainting her speech.

"What's wrong?" he asked before she could say anything else.

"What?" she asked a little too quickly, surprised by his unexpected interest in her, "...nothing, nothing's wrong," she added after a moment, proceeding to rearrange the flowers she'd brought in a bid to appear occupied.

"Besides, you shouldn't be worrying yourself with anything other than your full recovery. You're a courageous man, Hugue. AX undoubtedly needs you," she added with a forced smile.

'_AX_,_'_ he thought miserably, _'…AX indeed. But never someone who truly matters....'_

Hugue registered her words slowly, feeling a pang of... something in his gut. In considering his role, he knew full well that he was yet another tool to be used, certainly wanted and needed, but a tool all the same. Certain factors made his position bearable; exploiting various resources in a bid to find the vampires responsible for the attack on his clan, ascertaining the whereabouts of his missing sister, which he believed with all his heart was still alive, and an outlet for his revenge-driven hatred of anything vampire. There was also the matter of his colleagues, for despite the professional atmosphere he maintained around them, a few had managed to gain his regard, and perhaps none more so than the woman standing beside him. She _understood_ him and his pain – even if it was courtesy of her empathic abilities – more so than anyone else. In turn, he strived to know her. The false cheerfulness she was donning wasn't fooling him, or her assurances that everything was fine. Something _was_ wrong, he was sure of it.

"...Especially as I won't be here," she added quietly, her fussing over the flowers coming to a permanent cease.

He blinked, his turn to be surprised. "What?" he asked, finally turning to look at her again.

She sighed tiredly, closing her eyes to stifle the pain they obviously bore before turning to meet his gaze. "I'm leaving Hugue."

Silence. Dead silence. The two of them continued to stare at one another, neither willing to break the tense hush that had enveloped them. Hugue was stunned speechless, replaying what he'd heard over and over again. She was leaving!? The mere thought was incredulous; Noélle was without a doubt one of the more dedicated of agents in their ranks. And even as he attempted to come up with a plausible rationale for her astounding decision, nothing came to mind.

"What happened?" he demanded in a tone low and hard, unable to bear the quiet any longer.

"I just…," she trailed off with a shaky breath, "I can't do this anymore. Once everything's gone – everything you ever held dear and that gave you reason to get through the worst of what we face day in and day out – all you're left with is acute despair and heartache. I've lost that which I held dearest of all, and I don't have to tell you how I feel right now. There's nothing left for me here, only unpleasantries, and irrational sentiments which I've tried and failed to dispel. Maybe a stronger person would have persevered and held on, but just maybe being able to let go and walk away shows a greater strength of character. At least, that's what I'd like to think."

Hugue was quiet as he analysed the words he'd heard, attempting to unearth the hidden meaning behind her confessions of pain. She hadn't answered his question, but he felt as if she'd revealed enough that he'd be able to figure out the situation for himself. And it wasn't a difficult feat at all; there was only one thing that came to mind when he considered what her heart valued most….

'_That idiot!_'

He inwardly grimaced as the theatre within his mind relayed what had most likely happened. It was no secret to anyone in AX as to how Noélle felt about the silver haired priest; everyone could see her love for him as clear as day except for, of course, the oblivious man himself. She must have chosen to confess to him, he reasoned, and he'd either rejected her, or carried on dismissively whilst donning his forged mask of ignorant stupidity. Either way, he was a downright idiot! If he couldn't see and appreciate Noélle for what she was – a compassionate, strong-willed angel beyond all measure – than he didn't deserve her. He was, on some level, selfishly glad matters had turned out as they had, and Noélle could at long last begin to forget the bumbling fool and move on. He, on the other hand, would see to it that Abel Nightroad had some semblance of sense rightly knocked into him.

"Look at me, rambling on like that," she exclaimed with a light laugh. "I'm sorry, it's nothing really. I didn't mean to bring all of this up, especially whilst you're still recuperating. But I felt I owed you the decency of at least a proper 'good bye'. I couldn't leave without saying as much."

"When… are you leaving?" he managed to ask, his gaze once again on the ceiling.

"Tonight, preferably. I'll be informing the Cardinal of my resignation as soon as I leave here."

He nodded, at a loss to what else could be said. Rather, he basked in her presence, wordlessly appreciating the time she had decided to spend there, with him, sitting beside his overwrought form on the bed as her hand lay comfortingly atop of his. She said nothing as well, staring contemplatively outside the window, as if she too were reluctant to disturb the comfortable peace that had overcome them. Hugue didn't want to think that her silence was an indicator that her mind may have been elsewhere… on someone else.

"I should probably get going, and let you get some more rest," she stated suddenly.

He had no idea how much time had passed, but he quickly decided that it wasn't enough. He wanted to tell her she could stay – that he _wanted_ her to stay – and plead with her not to leave, but nothing; not a single word escaped his lips. His subconscious had probably determined that, just maybe, he was forever destined to be a victim of misfortune and loss, and thus reaching out for anything pleasant and heart-warming would be nothing short of foolish. The former attributes certainly mirrored his life perfectly, starting at the very beginning with the tragedy of his youth, right up to the dismal present.

Noélle must have sensed his small inkling of despair, for the next thing he knew, she was squeezing his hand and running the other through his blonde locks. It was almost, _almost_, affectionate, and it made the reality of the situation somewhat tolerable. The illusion would suffice.

"Good bye, Hugue," she said with a smile, leaning down to place a chaste kiss on his lips.

All of a sudden he was reminded of another woman he had loved long ago, and the parallels between the two just about overwhelmed him. He may have wept had his emotions been more receptive. Instead, his eyes closed involuntarily as he committed the moment to memory, everything from the reassuring hold on him to the soft feel of her red lips.

"Thank you," he whispered when their eyes met next. He felt he ought to have clarified, adding a '_for coming to see me_.' But she smiled knowingly, her eyes sad and compassionate as they bore into his, and he finally understood. That was all she could ever bring herself to give him – in the form of a parting gift – something small, yet by no means insignificant. He couldn't break the illusion.

"Take care of yourself," she whispered, her hand caressing his cheek before she stood, and at last began to make her way for the door. But there was one more thing left for him to say, something he felt she needed to hear.

"Noélle!" he called out as he sat up, his voice a tad more frantic than he'd intended.

But she turned, patiently waiting for him to continue, her expression neither judgmental nor frustrated. He swallowed, his gaze locked with hers.

"I'm sorry."

She smiled, fighting back tears that he knew were threatening to spill.

"I'm sorry too."

* * *

Clear ebony skies graced Berlin that night; the white pinpoints of far off stars easily comparable to tiny diamonds strewn across dark velvet. In its centre lay the crown of jewels, the night's eye, shining brightly in its spherical glory and elegantly lighting the shadowy streets of the city below. The picture emanated a sense of perfect calm, further accentuated by the lack of any real noise. Even the cool night breeze was silent in its passing wake, reluctant to spoil the seamless quality of such a portrait. Appreciation consumed anyone who happened to look upon it, and in the wake of their mesmerisation, tranquillity doubtlessly followed. Needless to say, it was a night to be enjoyed, and not to be spoiled.

A line of smoke danced before one such admirer, moving in hypnotic waves as if in sync to some exotic tune before his obsidian eyes. Through the misty haze, he gazed out upon the moon, a feeling of contentment embracing his form under its silvery light. A fire crackled off to the side, painting one side of his face a fiery gold as he sat, motionless, seemingly oblivious to the shouts and taunts echoing across the old library's walls. And oblivious he was, for the most part, but as the diatribe continued to… _escalate_, so too were the voices of the two men hurtling insults and crafty obscenities at one another. It was enough of a distraction, and distraction was not something he wanted that night.

"Rules exist for a reason, you know. If you can't do as you're told, than you'll be punished," the young man paused at this, smiling slightly before continuing, "that is how things work around here. As soon as you were done with the priest, you were meant to retreat, _not_ carry out a repeat of Prešov."

"And _who's_ going to punish _me_? I suppose you and flimsy strings? Don't make me laugh."

The man's smile became tight. "I understand that the idea of an outright blood bath makes you wet yourself at night, and I'm not about to deny you your sticky sheets, but control is key _Abendroth_. As is loyalty. If you can't follow a simple order–"

"Oh please, your problem isn't with my little escapade, which was an absolute work of art, if I should say so myself. You should have seen it; roads painted red as streams of blood trickled down them freely, bodies left to rot in their pleading and defensive poses… their eyes exuding terror even in death…. I do say Bosch _(3)_ himself would have had a field day transferring that scene onto canvas, with me at the top of it all, highlighted by a bloody moon… playing the role of the Devil himself to perfection," Adon von Abendroth declared with a euphoric sigh. The younger man standing across from him, however, was not impressed. Adon couldn't care less.

He'd joined the Rosencreutz Orden neither for their politics, or their ideals. In actuality, at times he didn't even bother to _know_ what they were working towards. But such details were irrelevant. He'd joined the Order simply because they nurtured, and _encouraged_, his destructive tendencies, and in turn gave him full reign to utilize them when and where they deemed them necessary.

His apathy towards anything other than his pleasurable, bloody pursuits further applied to the Orden's other members, and seeing as he cared little for the power plays constantly taking place, he generally had no qualms or issues with anyone. The… _boy_, conversely, annoyed him to no end. _He_, unlike the others, seemed to enjoy getting under his nerves, so much so that it must have become a popular pastime of his. As such, he wholeheartedly agreed with _Eishexe_ and _Flammenschwert _on one regard; the young 'Puppet Master' was nothing more than a bothersome little parasite that needed to be squashed into the realm of nonexistence. And oh how he longed to be the one doing the squashing.

"Then what _is _my problem?" Dietrich von Lohengrin asked dismissively, examining a gloved hand.

"That I got the job, and not you."

Dietrich scoffed. "As if I'd be so petty."

"I beg the differ. Don't think I'm not aware of your little pout-fest before number two."

"I don't have to _pout_ to anyone about anything! In case you've forgotten, I outrank you."

"Oh, you did not just pull rank on me!"

"Oh yes I very well did! Don't like it?" he mocked with a small smirk, indicating an end table nearby, "there's a phone. Call someone who cares."

"Unlike you, I don't feel the need to waste our superiors' time complaining about every insignificant little thing!" Adon retaliated, "I fight my battles on my own and open."

"You might want to opt for an adverb there, _Damoklesschwert_. 'Openly' would support your predicate. 'Open' would've merely described your late mother's leg position at the bar."

"Funny, real funny. At least I didn't kill _my_ mother."

"No, she abandoned you on an anonymous street corner before you had the chance."

"I really ought to cut off that infuriating tongue of yours."

"I echo that sentiment, but we both know that's your favourite tool in bed. And I wouldn't want to deprive your partners."

The barb wasn't lost on Adon. "Please, just because I'm _pretty_ doesn't mean I play the submissive."

"Ah, so you have the boys lie on their hands and knees before you then? Good to know."

"Now why on Earth would I want a… _boy_," Adon asked, stressing the last word distastefully, "seeing as once I get my satisfaction with a girl, I can just as easily turn her around and have her as a boy _(4)_? It's the best of both worlds, _Marionettenspieler_. You should try it sometime."

"No offence, but you're the last person I'd accept advice from Abendroth."

"A shame, I suspect such advice is surely needed on your end. Your luck with the fairer sex is something less than to be desired. Speaking of which, how are things working out with that cute little red head you're always obsessing about? What was her name again…," Adon trailed off, pretending to be deep in thought, "oh yes… _Esther_."

Dietrich felt a twitch at the corner of his lips upon hearing her name come out of _his_ mouth, in that sickly soft and languid voice of his. It both angered and bothered him to no end; _he_ was the only one allowed to speak her name! To taste its sound as it rolled off the tip of his tongue. He and no one else! And as if the man couldn't infuriate him further, he just had to open his mouth yet again.

"Perhaps I should pay her a visit. After all, she wouldn't be the first Sister I've ever had the pleasure of ravaging senseless."

Dietrich only 'tsked' in response to Adon's jibe, a cold smirk suddenly gracing his features. "Now you've crossed the line," he stated with a sigh, lazily raising his hand.

Adon wasn't in the least bit intimidated. Rather, he was thrilled. He grinned expectantly as he proceeded to tighten the hold on his blade, ready for a fight.

"I wonder if those strings of yours are able to reach me before I have my sword pressed against your throat," he wondered aloud, sadistic glee accentuating every word.

"This will definitely be the perfect time to find out," Dietrich drawled, raising his other hand.

Adon's grin grew larger. "You got that right," he stated, releasing his sword from its scabbard with a flick of his thumb.

"Enough."

Both men paused just as they were about to make their respective moves. The demand's tone had been low and conversational, yet firm in its deliverance. It left no room for questions, and both knew better than to disobey.

Adon chuckled, letting his blade slip back into its sheath. "Another time then. All of this senseless banter has given me a headache."

With that he turned and left the room. Dietrich watched him leave, chocolate orbs narrowing on the back of his long, billowing coats. He silently cursed at the missed opportunity of having that stupid grin wiped right off his face. There was nothing he would have enjoyed more at that current moment in time, and it would have staved off his boredom for the remainder of the evening. But no, _he_ just _had_ to intervene. They'd both been so absorbed with one another that they'd forgotten he too was in the room – hidden from view in the shadows that always tended to follow him – his lounge chair turned towards one of the wall-length windows. A line of smoke was making its way to the ceiling, and Dietrich absently noted the stench of burning tobacco polluting the air. He grimaced in annoyance, turning to leave himself if only to escape the horrid smell before the man's full and cultured voice reached his ears.

"You really should avoid starting quarrels with the others."

Dietrich's scowl intensified at the reprimand. Had the 'Ice Witch' from hell tattled on him again? Who was he kidding, of course she had! He couldn't even open his mouth without her getting all riled up, ensuring he remained deaf in both ears from the intensity of her screeching, only to go rushing off to their lord the moment she miraculously ran out of air. But he'd deal with the ice queen later; _Damoklesschwert_ was still foremost on his mind.

"And I really don't see why you tolerate him," the brunette exclaimed, making his way over to the other man, "he's insane."

Isaak Fernand von Kämpfer smirked as he tapped his cigarillo against a clear crystal ashtray. Impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit, the second in command of the Rosencreutz Orden took another long drag before exhaling the smoke leisurely, all the while considering the puppeteer's words. Hearing him condemn someone else on the basis of 'insanity' was an amusing affair. He was tempted to point out the hypocrisy of his claim, but decided against it. After all, he wasn't so inclined towards hearing Dietrich go on all evening as he was to appreciating a beautiful night in peace and quiet.

"He's effective," was his simple reply, as if it were the most obvious observation in the world.

Adon von Abendroth was a tool of fear – a destructive force akin to a raging inferno – and once set loose, he ensured that sentiment spread far and wide. His actions in Bohemia had shocked the populace, and Isaak's predictions as to the fallout of such a catastrophe had already begun unravelling. The Bohemian War two years prior had served to disable the foundations of the region indefinitely. Tolerance for the Vatican's presence, the victors of that conflict, was hanging from a thin thread. Resentment for the duke and duchess, puppet rulers put in place by the Church, was steadily growing in the face of increasing poverty and general discontentment. The massacre ought to have, and was proving to be, the last straw.

The situation hadn't been difficult to instigate. Given the area's history, any news of Methuselah carrying out any sort of activity in the general vicinity would have surely set off alarm bells in Rome. As the war had proven, any act of disaffiliation with the Church would not be tolerated. The Vatican knew that if Bohemia were to fall out of its sphere of influence, it would be ripe for the picking by any one of its adversaries, namely the Empire. It had deployed its forces in a show of imperialistic desperation – Bohemia could not be lost for its strategic relevance and abundant resources – and had quelled any separatist sentiments those two years prior… much to the agitation of many of the locals. Naturally, the Vatican was well aware of such tensions. And so they had taken the bait; nothing more than a simple rumour, and deployed their Inquisitorial forces.

The arrival of Rome's forces coinciding with the bloodbath Adon had carried out would not go unnoticed. Gruesome memories and painful realities of what the people had previously gone through would fill their hearts and minds once again. The blame would fall entirely on the Vatican, and it would set the stage for another bloody war.

Isaak couldn't wait for tomorrow's newspaper, for he just knew the Vatican's convoluted tale regarding what had occurred would surely anger a lot of people; they were too predictable in that regard, always shifting the blame onto someone else. And the icing on the cake was that the lovely Lady Cardinal, fully aware of the _true_ architect's identity, would be entirely powerless in impeding the inevitable. He sighed contently; all the pieces were coming together nicely.

"He's a liability," Dietrich countered easily, bringing the older man back into the argument, "he doesn't follow orders and has no measure of self control. He may one day prove to be more problematic than what he's worth."

"There's no need to be such an alarmist, _Marionettenspieler_. If that day should come, I will deal with him myself."

Dietrich couldn't say he was happy with the decision; he just knew that lunatic was going to compromise them sooner rather than later. So why couldn't they just deal with him there and then, be done with it, and save everyone a world of frustration in the process? Truth be told, he was itching to be the one to bring about Abendroth's demise, and he wasn't happy having to wait to do so. He sighed at the thought, annoyed and suddenly very bored.

"Dietrich."

The Magician's voice cut through his thoughts, and after a slight pause….

"You're pouting."

* * *

Adon stumbled into his room amidst an internal wave of severe disorientation, desperately seeking a place to sit. His headache had been steadily increasing since he'd left the library, and at current it felt as if his skull was about to crack open. He slammed the door, locking it in place before dropping himself onto an armchair close to the window. Fingers dug mercilessly into his skull, his nails leaving crescent indents upon his alabaster skin. He screamed in pain, digging his fingers in further as if the act alone would relieve him of the intense turmoil. Sweat trickled down his forehead… his breaths hard and ragged through clenched teeth as the slight pounding behind his eyes spread like a wildfire through the rest of his being.

He shook and flailed, his painful cries becoming wounded howls. It was as if his entire body was being ripped apart from every angle. He would have pegged that wretched Puppet Master and his cowardly strings as the cause, but he knew better. It wasn't the first time he'd experienced such suffering. In fact, the last time he'd felt similar physical torture had been….

'_He infuriates you, doesn't he? Yes, yes, I know he does. He should be dealt with….' _

Clarity suddenly overcame him, the disturbing silence that followed stinging his ears. Eyes wide, pupils dilated, lips parted… he was a picture of absolute apprehension. His fingers ceased in their thrashing the moment that silky tone echoed across his mind. That voice…!

"I-I can't," he whispered meekly.

'_Fool!'_

He shrieked, grabbing his head once again at the punishing voice, and the fresh wave of pain it carried with it; pain akin to a thousand red-hot needles piercing every inch of his skin.

'_What are you, their dog!? I have no use for pawns von __Abendroth__!'_

"I-I'm n-no pawn!"

'_Oh? Is that so? Continue to tell yourself that, then. But who are you really trying to convince; me, or yourself?'_

"Argh! Leave me!" he cried, digging his fingers further into his skull and drawing blood.

'_Do not shun me…!'_ the voice shrieked in protest. The residual ringing just about finished him, tossing him about between the realm of consciousness and oblivion. And just as quickly, there was nothing… only silence.

He gasped; his arms falling passed the armrests. He barely moved, focusing instead on steadying his frantic heart and irregular breaths. His thoughts were a mess, incapable of forming a single coherent thought. But even in his frantic, disheveled state, one thing still managed to catch his eye.

Outside the window, perched atop a leafless branch, stood a crow as black as night itself. The silver moon danced in the heavens directly behind the ominous creature, tinting its dark feathers an eerie blue.

Legend had it ravens instinctively followed death, so he figured it was some fitting irony that they always managed to find him; a modern bringer of untimely demise. But there was something inherently wrong with the creature perched beyond his walls, seemingly staring back at him with its soulless ebony eyes. A shiver ran down his spine, for despite the very real possibility that his mind was playing tricks on him, for a flicker of a second, he saw those midnight eyes glow red; a red the night's full moon echoed in sync. He gulped, frozen in place as he continued to thoughtlessly stare at the deathly bird, right up to the point it decided to spread its wings and take flight.

Though even in obvious solitude, the man couldn't shake the sensation that someone, or _something_, was still watching him. That, coupled with everything that had happened thus far, meant that Adon von Abendroth was treated to a wave of blood-chilling fear he had not felt in years. All of it… the pain, the voice in his head, the raven; all were part of a message, and the message was clear… the time for collection was fast approaching. His time was running out.

* * *

_(1) Quoted from '__De Ira' (c. 41) by Lucius Annaeus Seneca, better known as Seneca the Younger;_  
"_Veritum dies aperit."__  
~ "Time discovers the truth."_

_(2) A variant quote by Napoleon Bonaparte_ _(1769 – 1821).  
"A leader is a dealer in hope."_

_(3) Reference to Netherlandish painter Hieronymus Bosch (c. 1450 – 1516) who used __fantastic imagery to illustrate moral and religious concepts and narratives, particularly depictions of sinful humanity and late medieval conceptions of Heaven and Hell. _

_(__4) Indirect quote from 'Venetianische Epigramme' (1795) by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe;  
"__I could have made it just as well with boys  
although__ my thing has always been with girls.__  
And once I get my satisfaction with a girl  
I can turn her around __and have her as a boy."  


* * *

_

So here are some questions for the reviewers. I'll make sure to reply to each review personally.

1) Was Caterina's reaction to news of the Orden's involvement, and consequent bout of turmoil and anger, a predictable response? Likewise, are her vengeful thoughts a natural reaction, and keeping with what you know of her character?

2) What did you think of Noélle's thoughts concerning Caterina? Were they a fair and accurate depiction?

3) Were the reasons behind Noélle's choice to confess to Abel reasonable? And was her shift from hopeful elation to utter dismay, as well as her decision to leave AX, in your opinion, a natural transition considering the circumstances?

4) Thoughts on Abel's reaction? Was it predictable of him?

5) Was Hugue's emotionless state after his ordeal, and his self-blame, a natural response for his character?

6) Hugue and Noélle; thoughts? Considering what the two of them had respectfully gone through, did it make sense to you that they'd reach out to one another; Hugue more so than Noélle?

7) Your thoughts on Adon von Abendroth? Is there a particular direction you'd like to see his story go?

8) Are the characters you've seen so far more or less keeping with their canon personalities?

9) Is the story generally easy to read? Would you personally prefer it to be less descriptive?

10) General thoughts/comments?

Once again, thanks for your help everyone! I'll do my best to get the next chapter out as soon as possible.


	5. Part V

Author's Note: My apologies, this took longer to come out than originally planned. The subject matter at the beginning was something I'd never attempted to write before, so it was a very slow start.  
Also, just to note, the build-up to the story's main plot is fast approaching, so there should be some action in the upcoming chapters.

As always, thank you to IVIaedhros, Lex and Crimson Menacholy for your feedback. Any reviews are greatly appreciated!

* * *

Part V

_"Nothing on earth consumes a man more quickly than the passion of resentment."_  
– _Friedrich Nietzsche_

The hardy echo of short, urgent gasps effortlessly cut through the frigid silence permeating the regal room, intensifying with every fervent motion. The mist of each and every exhalation lingered in stagnant repose above the writhing forms, interrupted only by the occasional sharp intake of blessed air. Moans, throaty and hurried to the ear, played out like some robust concerto of music – a heavenly sound of perfect bliss. Oblivious to anything else, wholly encased in a haze of proverbial pleasure, the two lovers fell further out of reality's hold and into a world of their own creation.

The cold of night had all but dissipated in the wake of a sweltering inferno; an appropriate milieu for carnality and sin. The deft fingers of scorched flames did their job well, tantalising their victims with promises of ensuing pleasure, along with a more ominous reminder of what awaited those who ignored promised threats spewed by righteous priests. But such words were not heeded, and easily dismissed by the lascivious duo in favour of more pleasurable pursuits. Pursuits, whose climatic finales, easily outweighed gruesome thoughts of eternal damnation. And with a muffled scream by her... a final grunt by him, the long-awaited climax to their urgent affair consumed them both in a series of pulsating tremors and internal flutters; a blazing torrent of unequivocal ecstasy that touched upon every nerve and inch of flesh.

Breathless, having ridden the last of their high together, the two at long last slumped back onto the inviting mattress beneath their enervated forms, wholly spent. Neither said a word, focusing instead on the task of filling their lungs with much needed oxygen, and bringing to a calm the frantic beating of their hearts.

"My dear, your reputation _truly_ precedes you," a brusque, masculine voice proclaimed alongside a heavy contented sigh. The short-lived silence had, at last, come to an abrupt end.

"Oh? And here I thought you were a man who didn't submit himself to heeding lowly rumours," a mature feminine voice stated, clearly amused.

"When the wildfire of flagrant gossip spreads amongst individuals of my profession, one cannot help but be absorbed by the latest subject of foolish scandal from time to time. Your name comes up more often then any other, amidst a torrent of… incomprehensible accusations. Though, I must say, that all of these rumours I have heard in passing do you very, _very_ little justice. You were utterly insatiable!"

"Am I to presume, that there is merit in slander, then?" the woman asked with a chuckle.

"Perhaps."

Lucrezia Borgia _(1) _smiled at the thought, stretching her body taut with all the languid gracefulness of some exotic feline. For a woman well into her late forties, the Lady Borgia was still very much in her prime. Long, smooth legs, a toned abdomen and firm, generous bosom belied her age – as well as the fact she'd given birth to three children. On the other hand, sophisticated facial contours and the wizened gleam of her eyes radiated a timeless elegance similar to a matured bottle of fine wine; something full-bodied and red. Her palate, however, had always favoured something stronger… a liquid that burned like molten silk as it went down the throat.

"I'm curious, what exactly has the clergy been saying about me?" she asked teasingly, sitting up and making her way over to a guéridon where a silver tray and crystal bottle lay.

Procuring two snifter glasses, Lucrezia proceeded to fill each with a small amount of the clear brown liquor housed within the decanter: a Hors d'âge Louis XIII de Rémy Martin well over fifty-five years of age; her drink of choice. Complex, surprising, mature… its slightly fruity flavour and acidic undertone, along with the characteristic fiery sting it carried when going down, made it an exquisite cognac. Not only that, but the attributes used to describe it emulated her perfectly.

"Oh there are many tales and variations there of, each one more shocking than the last; corruption, blackmail, treason, infidelity, incest…," the older man paused, his voice low, "murder."

Lucrezia remained still for a moment upon hearing that last accusation, her hazel eyes dark and lips slightly curled. Unconsciously, she began to fiddle with the ring she wore on her right hand, contemplatively lost in colourful recollections from her past... and what a colourful past it was. She was, after all, a Borgia; there was no absence of drama in her family line. Brothers killing brothers, sons killing fathers, wives killing husbands... the list of deceitfully orchestrated tragedies was endless. Needless to say, when such misfortune befell upon one's own kin, no one else was safe.

_Beware the wrath of Borgia_... or so the saying went. For once, the rumours were true.

Breaking out of her reverie, she took a glass in each hand and sauntered her way back to the bed. She watched the man as his eyes roved over her naked form – fully exposed to his scrutiny –and inwardly grinned in untamed delight as his eyes darkened with a renewed flame of lust. Of course, she hadn't been expecting anything less. One of her many lovers, the poet Pietro Bembo, had often declared in his rich and vivid vocabulary that her body was a work of art, rivalling that of Aphrodite herself... a heavenly temple in which flowers themselves would be ashamed to bloom, and thus _had_ to be displayed. Such flattery had certainly done away with any reservations she may have had in the past with being so candid, and needless to say, Pietro had quickly become one of her favourites. But variation was key, and the man currently occupying her bed, for a plethora of different reasons – some less noble than others – was likely to become another favourite too, embodying all the qualities she loved in a man. He was an important figure within the church, of noble blood, and influential, which all in all made him _incredibly_ useful. Along with power and sophistication, he held a voracious stamina rarely seen in men well into their sixties. And for a woman who had had her fair share of male company, there was nothing she enjoyed more than a virile man.

"Tell me then, Your Grace... do _you_ believe these depraved accounts?" she asked in an innocent, yet conniving tone, having come to a stop before him.

The Archbishop of Cologne, Alfonso d'Este, grinned wickedly as he met her mischievous gaze with his own.

"Absolutely."

"All the more reason to stay away then, is it not?" she teased as she got back onto the bed.

Alfonso watched the blonde temptress cautiously over the rim of his glass, swallowing a generous amount of the costly liquor as she settled in besides him. Were he still the man he'd been in his youth – all righteous and conservative – he never would've been caught dead with such an immorally scandalous woman. Nevertheless, that young, naïve boy was dead, and in his place stood what many would describe as a bitter, old fool. Bitter for having lost the Papacy to his child nephew in a ludicrous spectacle orchestrated by the boy's traitorous siblings Caterina and Francesco... foolish for having allowed them all to get away with it.

…All that was about to change.

He'd lived a despondent life of resentment ever since that day, the rigorously insufferable sentiment slowly eating away at his sanity and composure. The compelling desire for revenge was the only stimulus left with which to fill his heart, the only thought to fill his mind day upon day – like some infectious plague, along with the obstinate vision he held that he _would_, indeed, one day soon become Pope. But such a feat required meticulous planning, and adequate connections; people who had no qualms in going head to head against the infamous might the Vatican possessed. Lucrezia Borgia was one such individual. Unlike her distant relatives in Hispania, he knew for a fact that _she_ held no allegiance or love for the church. And being from such a powerful family, she would surely prove to be a valuable asset.

He therefore largely overlooked the fact that many of her lovers had the tendency to wind up dead, or that she was a cunning viper who most likely had her _own_ reasons for getting involved with him. Still, he was a vigilant creature; he wouldn't let his guard down for a second, lest she strike with all the speed and venom of the accursed serpent that mirrored her so truly.

With such an admonitory thought filling his mind, he hesitantly looked down at the rest of his drink. It wasn't the best of ideas to be having something potent whilst in her presence, and yet, pushing all reservations aside, he swallowed what was left of it in a single go. If his past dealings with the woman had taught him anything – taxing a companion as she was – it was that he ought to be lingering at the crux of intoxication in order to get through the encounter.

Closing his eyes momentarily at the alcohol's subtle effects, he re-opened them only to see her curiously impatient expression. He'd yet to answer her.

"You and I are one and the same," Alfonso stated simply in answer to her question, elaborating subtly when met by her inquisitive expression. "Terrible business with your father, that was."

If the statement had bothered her in the slightest, she didn't show it. Her gaze was impassive as ever, and her characteristic smirk remained intact. Lucrezia was a strong woman, there was no denying that, but even she had demons from the long distant past residing within the inner closet of her soul.

Her father, Rodrigo Borgia, had reigned as Pope before Alfonso's brother Gregorio succeeded the throne. His rule was a controversial one, filled with instances of corruption, excessive uses of the Vatican's military power, and debased practices that would bring any man, let alone a man of the Church, to shame. His enemies were many, particularly within the Roman Curia. So it was only fitting that his end had come from a rival cardinal, under a guise of fake chivalry, at a dinner held in His Holiness' honour. The poison that wrought vengeful havoc on his body was an ideal punishment for his 'sins'; Gregorio suffered a long, excruciating death. With his passing, the Church seized the majority of the family's estates, leaving Lucrezia – the last amongst her siblings – at the brink of ruin.

She recovered easily and in no time as well, redeeming her family's name – revered and feared once again – whilst bravely dismissing the scorn and condemnation she encountered from the other noble houses. But for all her endurance, cunning and heartlessness, deep down, on some level, he knew that she too harboured a torrid resentment towards the Vatican… resentment that was biting away at her well-maintained composure following his deliberate jab. It was necessary motivation; he needed her rattled, fuming and drawing parallels between them in order to garner her sympathy, and her voluntary assistance towards his cause.

'So that's how he's going to play,' Lucrezia thought absently, swallowing her own drink as she considered her response.

"My father wasn't the most righteous man, I won't deny that. But the way he died…," she paused for effect, taking a deep breath. "He didn't deserve that; having his stomach swell up and turn into liquid, his skin turn red and peel off, to suffer more than a week of intestinal bleeding and convulsive fevers before finally passing away. And not to end there, but to have those hypocritical cardinals conspire to destroy my family entirely even with the old man's death…! Yes, very terrible business it was."

"I'm sorry," Alfonso offered, making sure it sounded sincere. "I can't begin to imagine what you went through. It seems to be an insufferable trend among ecclesiastical officials in Rome to vindictively rally against one another; and so much better the spoils if it promotes their own careers in the process. And, with every generation, amusingly enough, it's always the same lot, the same families… pulling the strings behind every action. The Borghese's _(2)_… the Medici's… the Sforza's."

Lucrezia huffed despite herself at the mention of the last name. Her first husband had been a Sforza; a fretful little bastard known as Giovanni. The man had been insufferable, bitter, and dare she say, possibly slow of mind. Never would she have considered such a disaster that was Giovanni Sforza as a potential spouse, but her father had arranged the marriage in order to establish an alliance with his family. Of course, once he'd been elected pope, Rodrigo felt that he'd served his purpose, and sought to get rid of him in favour of someone more prominent within the papal court. He, along with her brother Cesare, had planned to have him killed. Though once she learned of this, in a moment of weak compassion, she'd decided to inform her ill-fated husband, who then immediately fled Rome for his estate in Milan. What followed was a harsh divorce in which many things were said; Giovanni had been declared impotent – and so was the basis for their union's nullification – to which he denied, and proceeded to accuse Lucrezia of paternal and fraternal incest. To say she'd been furious would be an understatement.

Outraged and humiliated, the Sforza's quickly allied themselves with Rodrigo's arch-adversary; the ambitious cardinal Giovanni di Lorenzo de' Medici. They and their rival faction conspired to be rid of the old man till the very end, having no doubt played a role in the planning of his assassination. ...The rest was written in history.

"Indeed. It's nice to see your niece and nephew following in their predecessors' footsteps," Lucrezia said, reeling the discussion to where she knew he wanted it to be.

"Hmph! Ungrateful bastards! I was there, supporting them in every way I could, the day my dear old brother left this world; it was my influence that secured their success within the Church, and all I had ever hoped for in return was their damn loyalty! Was that _really_ too much to ask, to expect? I'm the closest family they have left, and what do they do? They throw me to the wolves, work against me to get that idiot child-nephew of mine elected pope! A mere boy... a mere puppet to serve their whims! I should have been pope, damn it! I worked, and suffered, and sacrificed all my life to achieve just that... and they took it all from me, without a care; like a pair of vindictive harpies. Oh how I loathe them! How I pray day after day for vengeance! How I wish to destroy them… leave them as broken and miserable as they left me!"

Lucrezia couldn't help but covertly role her eyes as the man went on with his self-pitying tirade. She'd heard it all before, during one of their many engagements, but never had he been so vocal or passionate. The Archbishop's pent up anger was certainly in abundant supply, and anyone could testify that carrying around such a heavy, dismal load wasn't healthy. She'd assumed their first late night romp – most likely his first in a _very_ long while – would help ease some of the unwanted tension that had long been taking its toll on his aging body and soul. Another venture, or two, into uncharted practices and desires of the flesh was certainly on the menu before the night was through. But until then she had an agenda to put forward, and there was no better time than the present; the man had reached an insurmountable, and previously unattained, plane of hate and frustration. He was susceptible... malleable, and she would play on his pubescent desires and insecurities as she would a well-worn fiddle.

"You know... there is a way to achieve all that," she informed with a deliberate air of nonchalance, placing her empty glass on the nearest nightstand. Silence followed, but when she turned to him again, she could easily discern the intrigue emanating from his gaze.

"To have everything you ever wanted; the overdue vengeance against those impudent children, Rome's fear and adroration, and, more importantly, what has always been yours... the pope's throne itself."

He paused, caution and reason forgotten momentarily in the wake of genuine interest and a crippling urgency. She had him.

"What did you have in mind?"

The blonde siren grinned as she mounted him, looking down upon his inquisitive expression with a sense of triumph. Her voice was low and mystifying when she spoke again; painting an illusion of great secrecy and importance around the carefully uttered words.

"Have you ever heard of The Order of Rosencreutz?"

The Archbishop scoffed, instantly dismissive. "Rosencreutz? Please… they're nothing more than a myth… a tale to keep kids in line and awake all night. Had they ever truly existed, their remnants would've died out years ago."

"And what if I were to tell you that not only do they exist, but would be more than willing to assist you with your... quandary. No questions. No liabilities."

Alfonso's eyes narrowed. "I'd say it was too good to be true. What's the catch?"

"No catch, promise," she assured with a smile as she ran her fingers through the greying hairs of his chest. Though, knowing him as well as she did, he didn't believe it. Cautious to a fault, but his reservations were well placed; they both knew she was lying. "It will, however, cost you. And a lot more than just an arm and a leg."

"Money is not an issue. Don't forget I was the Duke of Ferrara long before I joined the Church; my family's assets should be more than adequate. That is, supposing I decide to go down this route."

"Fear not, Your Grace, I would never mislead you. ...They are the best."

Alfonso regarded her carefully, distractions aside; her ministrations were proving difficult to ignore. Rather than her crafty fingers, he forced his mind to focus upon and process the outcomes of such an alliance. Firstly, he had to overcome the surprise at being informed of the Orden's factual existence within this very day and age. From the hushed tales and rumors he'd come to hear, they would be as useful to him as they would be dangerous… he would be playing with more than just fire. But he was a gambling man, and if… no, _when_ they succeeded, the rewards would be great. Too great not to take a chance.

"In that case, I'd be willing to meet with them," he decided.

Lucrezia smiled knowingly, flipping her long blonde locks over a shoulder. "I'll make all the arrangements."

What shortly followed was a blissful escape into a netherworld of existence, where only they and the carnal pleasures that ensued existed. Speechless… thoughtless, all he could was gaze up in awe at the deadly siren moving languidly against him, knowing full well that damnation would be her parting gift when all was through.

He embraced it fully.

* * *

"You wanted to see me, Lady Caterina?"

"Yes, do come in Abel," the blonde Cardinal directed, her cool gray eyes regarding the tall figure closely as he came to stand before her desk, feeling at once at ease.

No matter how difficult times were; how frustrating, futile or tiresome, Abel Nightroad would always be a beacon of light and hope... the silver lining to grim and desolate clouds of cruel misfortune that reigned havoc upon and consumed their world. …Her world. He was her friend, saviour, and warrior; a knight in shining armour more honest and true than any picture-perfect prince of lore.

Caterina Sforza had stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago.

"A situation has come up that requires immediate attention," she began without pleasantries, opening a file to look over. "According to the reports we've managed to obtain, a number of serial murders have been taking place aboard passenger ships in Albion waters. Then, there's this."

Abel looked down at the photograph she had slid across her desk, confusion quickly etching its way onto his features. "What… is it?"

"The corpse of one of the attackers we were able to recover on site. Or what's left of it. We have reason to suspect there are a lot more like it."

The silver-haired priest shifted his weight back and forth from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable, as he continued to stare at the bizarre creature that had caused such ghastly chaos. It certainly didn't look threatening, or capable of such barbaric acts of murder. But appearances were deceiving; he himself could attest such a fact.

And as the thought brushed against his conscious mind, he began to fall further into a pit of proverbial melancholy. He was haunted. Had been since Noélle's impromptu confession unleashed a fury of sinister recollections; a montage of blood and suffering against an echo of pain stricken screams. It was the Hell that existed within his very soul, eternal damnation... a permanent reminder of what he was. It ensured he remained alone, and he embraced the gift of desolate solitude wholeheartedly... he didn't deserve to have anyone close by his side. He didn't deserve to be loved. He was, truly, a pitiful masochist. But none of that mattered; he had self-loathing down to a fine art.

Noélle deserved better.

"This is a sensitive situation," Caterina continued, drawing him out of his ruminations. "Albion is a powerful force, and we still owe them for that _Tristan_ debacle. This needs to be looked into and settled quickly with utmost caution. I know that you just got back from Moravia, and I'm sure we've yet to see the full impact of _that_ disaster, but AX is presently short on available personnel. With Sword Dancer's hospitalisation and Mistresses' unexpected resignation, we'll be hard pressed to maintain the workload we already–"

"Wait!" Abel suddenly cut in, his professional composure overtaken by surprise, "Noélle resigned?!"

Caterina paused mid-sentence, surprised herself at the unexpected outburst. "Yes, as of yesterday Noélle is no longer an operating agent of the Ministry of Holy Affairs."

"What?! Why?!" Abel demanded, his hands coming to a resolute halt upon the lady's desk.

Caterina couldn't help but arch an eyebrow at her subordinate's frenzied display. Abel certainly had his moments, moments in which he would lose sight of and forget proper protocol and professional decorum. And almost all the time she would dismiss his antics with a small smile, hidden from the world by the veil of her hand. His aloof nature and boisterous personality were just few of the more endearing traits she loved about him, after all.

"She didn't offer any specifics as to 'why'," Caterina relayed calmly, "just that she felt that this was no longer the right place for her. Truthfully, I'm surprised she didn't tell _you_ Abel; I assumed the two of you were rather close."

Bringing up such a supposition was a cheap shot, she knew. Particularly when taking into account his apparent dejection over the news of Noélle's leave. And yet, her words couldn't have been more deliberate, delivered with all the cool precision and iron resolve that defined her character.

She'd seen the evident adoration in her former agent's eyes when gazing upon the gangly priest; she would have been blind not to have. Neither had she been the only one. It was perhaps the worst kept secret amongst the AX, with just about everyone privy to the truth save the oblivious priest himself. And because she _was_ aware, she often found herself allowing her gaze to linger upon the two more than what was necessary; watching silently and trying to grasp onto fleeting thoughts that never quite blossomed. Her mindless scrutiny had too been coupled by the strangest of sensations; a gnawing at the pit of her stomach and a tightening of her chest. It couldn't have been jealousy; Caterina envied no one. And yet, when Mistress had expressed her desire to leave, she hadn't tried to stop her. It had been, dare she say, a _relief _to see her go.

"Not close enough," Abel whispered, his voice so soft she barely heard the words. "I can't help but wonder if she left because of me...."

"Noélle was a good agent; it's a shame we lost her," Caterina affirmed, whatever he was alluding towards evading her. But whatever it was – a recent event, perhaps – he had pegged himself as the catalyst for the sister's departure. And knowing Abel, she knew he would not soon forget his self-proclaimed 'fault' in all this.

"But we can't allow ourselves to be sidetracked by the 'hypothetical' and the 'why'. We have a job to do; one that simply won't disappear because we have neither the inclination nor the strength to deal with when our lives happen to suffer a bout of unrest. What demands our attention _now_ is the matter at hand."

Her words were cold, quick and unfeeling. It had been a crude delivery but the last thing she needed was a distracted Abel Nightroad feeling sorry for himself. At least no more than usual. He visibly cringed under the weight of her reprimand, his shoulders instantly released from their rigid binds as he exhaled forlornly. Then, all was silent. Seconds ticked by before his heavy, empty gaze found hers.

"You're right. Please forgive my intermission."

Caterina sat back in her chair, pleased to have brought his attention back to the present. "As I was saying earlier, considering current circumstances, there are presently too few AX agents available for assignment. As such, I have little choice but to deploy you along with _Dandelion_. Inform him there will be a subtraction of twenty years for his services rendered in this case."

"I will relay that to him."

Caterina nodded. "Tread carefully on this one, Abel. There's a possibility that an Albion noble is involved, and the last thing we need right now is another scandal."

"I understand."

"Good. Sister Kate will supply you with all necessary paperwork on your way out. You deploy tonight," she finalised, dismissing the monotonous quality to all his replies.

The priest signified his departure with a short bow of his head, more a pretence for formality if anything at all. His exterior betrayed nothing, much like a blank canvas, despite the personal quality to their conversation and his prior display of apparent shock.

Inside, he was torn.

* * *

"Well... well, look at what the cat dragged in."

The gruff voice was dismissive, yet playful. Its owner, a man well into his thirties, stood on the other side of the glass pane, hands cuffed before him. He was a priest, a servant of God, but he too had sinned. Once a decorated soldier, a moment of insanity had seen him murder his beloved wife and a plethora of clergymen. It was a devastating fall from grace, and an all too familiar tale; its origins older than creation itself.

A thousand years in a cell of despair – living a hell of his own creation – was deemed his justly punishment. Former pride shattered, he had nothing to show for his unforgivable actions save a well-worn blue prison suit and heavy bracelets of confining, forged steel. Yet the heavy seeds of resentment and self-loathing continued to reside deep within his heart, hidden from the world by unabashed arrogance and exuberance. It was a necessary act if he were to maintain his sanity.

Despite his dishevelled appearance, he radiated an aura of languid grace and untamed strength. His thick black mane, extending just over broad shoulders, and well-built physique likened him to a lion; all grace and raw strength.

"The 'Airhead' himself. It's been a while, Nightroad."

"Leon," Abel acknowledged monotonously.

"Hmm, you're looking more pathetic than usual. Did you run out of candy? Or has your pay been cut again?"

Amusement clearly danced in the man's gaze, and his tone was dripping with it. Abel almost sighed, but opted to close his eyes and readjust his glasses instead. AX agent Leon Garcia de Asturias was a handful who had given the priest more than his fair share of grief. He was used to taking his cynicism and insults in stride, but on that day he wasn't in the mood to participate in their usual tiring exchange. The resultant wound from the news of Noélle's leave was still raw, and his role in that outcome was reigning havoc within his mind. He'd mishandled the situation, _terribly_, and as a result had alienated and lost a very dear friend. It was a precarious affair, and he doubted he'd be able to let go and forget any time soon. The wound ran too deep.

"Well, someone's knickers are in an obvious twist. You know I hate being ignored, right?"

The silence grew.

"Fine, I get it. Don't keep me in suspense, then. What's the deal this time?" the man asked flippantly, dismissive of Abel's unresponsive demeanour as he lounged on his seat.

"Your sentence will be reduced by 7,300 days… twenty years. Assuming you survive," Abel read from the open file resting on his lap.

"Twenty years, huh?" Leon asked with a content yawn, stretching out his arms behind his head as he swung his booted feet onto the window's ledge, crossing them at the ankle and leaning back on his chair comfortably; a cliché picture of nonchalance. "Sounds good. So what exactly are we looking at?"

"We've received reports that numerous cargo ships have been attacked in Albion waters for the past month or so. All aboard were found slaughtered. We did, however, manage to get a photograph of one of the attackers. A hunter aboard a ship managed to shoot it down," Abel relayed, pressing the photograph he'd seen earlier against the window for Leon to examine. "This is a picture of the remains."

Confusion and annoyance registered on the man's swarthy face as he resumed a proper seating position, all prior carefree allusions dissipating with the move. He observed the figure in the picture closely, noticing the translucent, papery wings extending from the boy's – it was a boy, most likely no more than ten – back. And then his eyes fell on the boy's open mouth, and he noted the sharp, protruding canines that were so synonymous with fear and death in the human psyche.

"A fairy?!"

* * *

_() Opening quote is from__ 'Ecce Homo' (1888) by Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche__._

_(1)__ Lucrezia Borgia, one of history's original femme fatale's, was the daughter of Rodrigo Borgia, a powerful Renaissance Valencian who later became Pope Alexander VI. Originating from Spain, the family rose to considerable power in Rome and_ _later came to epitomize the ruthless Machiavellian politics and sexual corruption alleged to be characteristic of the Renaissance Papacy. Incidentally, her third husband just happened to be Alfonso I d'Este._

_(__2) The House of Borghese was a family of Italian noble and papal background, which came to prominence in the 13th century holding official offices under the commune. With a pope in their midst, Pope Paul V, they rose in power and wealth to become one of the most influential families in Rome.

* * *

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Questions for reviewers, so I can see where your heads are at :)

1) Your thoughts on Lucrezia Borgia's addition to the tale and characterisation; did it make sense and drive the plot forward? Would you like to see more of her?

2) Was this chapter easier to read than its predecessors?

3) Is the rating suitable for this story given what you've read so far? Should it be bumped to 'M'?

4) How is the pace thus far?

5) Any general thoughts/comments?

Once again, thanks for your help readers!


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